


My Eyes Are Full

by BoMarlowe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alaska, Alternate Universe - Human, Alters, Angst, Blackmail, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Documentaries, Documentary, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Filming, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Interviews, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Multiple Personality Disorder, Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Photographer Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Transitioning, Videographer Dean, Violence, Writer Castiel, split personality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoMarlowe/pseuds/BoMarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jimmy’s the one in imminent danger, as much as that angers him and incites that nasty bug of betrayal. His husband’s been hijacked by an alter and there’s no way to tell what Cas will do, or what he thinks he’s capable of doing in Jimmy’s body."</p><p>In which Dean decides to make a documentary about his husband's identity disorder, and the consequences are greater than either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1223rhys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1223rhys/gifts).



> This is a story about Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. I researched this topic a great deal before writing it, so there will be words and phrases used that are familiar in the DID community. This story follows Dean as he documents what his husband goes through and as he tries to uncover the secrets responsible for his husband's disorder, while they work to keep their marriage successful and raise a child together. 
> 
> Alter: Each individual personality/dissociation is referred to as an Alter.  
> Transition/Transitioning: The process Jimmy goes through as he dissociates/changes personalities. 
> 
> Jimmy's Alters (so far) are Castiel, Emmanuel, and Claire. 
> 
> For more information about DID: http://www.psychologytoday.com/conditions/dissociative-identity-disorder-multiple-personality-disorder
> 
> Title comes from the song My Eyes Are Full by Steve Burns.

 

“I apologize.”

Dean looks up, eyes catching on bright blue ones as he lets the morning paper drop to the table. Jimmy is sitting straight, rigid as a board, his head tilted minutely to the side as those blue eyes narrow in concentration. His hand slips slowly away from the cup of coffee he’d been holding, moving upward to awkwardly cradle the side of his head.

“Jimmy?” Dean whispers, though the sour twist in his gut tells him he’s not talking to his husband anymore.

“I – I can hear them, Dean. My grace has returned.”

“Cas,” Dean amends, pushing the sickening anxiety building his chest to the side, “Come on, man, no. We’ve talked about this.” So much, in fact, that Dean knows it won’t do any good to bring it up again, knows that it’s never made a difference in the past.

“They need me,” Cas says, then, “I must go to them.”

Dean has all of two seconds to react to that before Cas bolts up from the chair and out of the kitchen. Dean scrambles out of his own seat, feet slipping on the linoleum, his clumsy left hand knocking over his own mug and dumping scalding hot coffee over his bare thighs.

“Fuck! Cas, wait!”

He doesn’t, of course. The front door swings open and smacks into the siding, Cas running barefoot and practically naked out into the street.

Dean has no time, he knows – Cas is a faster runner than Jimmy by far, unburdened by self-consciousness and pain, so Dean will need his sneakers if he wants any hope of catching the alter before something happens.

He doesn’t even want to think in those terms, though. He doesn’t know what Cas plans on doing with Jimmy’s body, and it spikes his heart rate so fast that he might actually pass out before he makes it to the door.

His shoes barely cooperate, and he’s wearing only a pair of dark briefs and a loose cotton t-shirt, but fear is a powerful motivator and Dean’s got about a gallon of it pumping through his veins. He’d been smart enough to grab his phone off the counter before taking off, so he flips it open while trying to run as fast as his legs will carry him and hits one of the speed dial buttons – he’s not looking at his phone, too busy scanning the street in search of his husband – and prays someone will answer.

“Hello?” Ah, okay, it’s Anna. Not his first choice, but he’ll take what he can get.  

“Anna,” Dean pants, almost breathless already, “Please, fuck, I need your help.”

She’s used to these phone calls, or should be by now at the very least, yet the urgency in Dean’s voice never fails to send her into a sympathetic panic. “What? What’s going on?”

“I need you to get to my house, right now – shit! – Cas just took off running and I can’t find him,” Dean’s voice nearly breaks, but he manages to keep it together long enough to add, “Allie’s not awake yet. Please, I need you to get there and watch her ‘til I can find him.”

“I – uh, yeah, okay. I’m getting ready and leaving now, Dean. She’ll be okay.”

Dean says something to acknowledge that, or at least he thinks he does. He can’t focus on both anymore, not now that he’s got Cas in his sights. His stomach flips with every jarring movement as he runs, his fingers tingling from the cold or the adrenaline or both. Snowflakes, light as ladybug wings, dance around his vision and melt on his heated skin, reminding him that Cas has only a pair of flimsy boxers to protect himself from the August air.

It feels so unnatural to be running in the opposite direction of his daughter; his little girl, so scared of being left alone, plagued by nightmares that bring her tumbling into her daddies’ room in the middle of the night so she can snuggle between them. She’s too young to be alone like this, and Dean hates himself for leaving her so vulnerable, but the best he can do is hope that Anna keeps her word and will be there when Allie wakes up.

Jimmy’s the one in imminent danger, as much as that angers him and incites that nasty bug of betrayal. His husband’s been hijacked by an alter and there’s no way to tell what Cas will do, or what he thinks he’s capable of doing in Jimmy’s body.

He sees Cas ahead of him, running so expertly along the sloping bank of the river. The grass beneath his feet is slick, white-tipped with a thin layer of frozen dew that glitters as the soft wind bristles through them. Dean is so cold that his legs start to protest, cramping up with every step, but he pushes through the pain. They’re so close to the Chena that Cas could slip and roll right in, sink beneath the surface and get sucked away by the deadly underwater current.

“Cas!” Dean calls, lungs aching with the need to be filled, fighting against the biting air and the strain as he tries to yell through the distance, “Goddamnit Cas, come back!”

Cas says nothing, doesn’t even look like he heard Dean’s pleas, but it’s always hard to tell with this alter. Castiel can be a bit of an asshole – say, like right now, for instance – and doesn’t always bother with that annoying thing he calls human emotion.

The cellphone buzzes in his hand, but he’s finally running at a good pace and can’t afford to risk it. “Stop!” He calls, though he knows it’s a futile effort. They’re getting closer to the bridge, now – Dean can hear the thrum of cars and pedestrians as they cross, can smell the faint toxic scent of exhaust and cigarette smoke coming from the distance.

To Dean’s surprise, his hopeless, desperate command actually works.

Cas begins to slow, stumbling on confused feet, both hands rushing to clasp the sides of his head as he drops to his knees. Dean watches as his husband’s body curls into a fetal ball, his ribs jerking as they rise and fall over stuttering breaths.

Dean falls to the ground beside Cas, pulling him close and rubbing his hands over Cas’ arms to keep him warm. “Cas, talk to me,” he shudders, the cold sinking in further beneath his skin. When he doesn’t get a response, when his husband’s body continues to shake and whimper in the grass, Dean tries, “Jimmy?”

“I can hear them,” Cas says, and Dean knows it’s not his husband, not yet, “The angels, the prayers, all of it.”

“It’s okay, Cas, but I need you to focus with me,” Dean says, the strength of his voice masking the fear in his heart, “It’s really cold outside, see? I know you can’t feel it, but Jimmy’s probably freezing, and Allie’s home all alone right now so we need to get back to her.”

For a moment, Dean thinks he’s gotten through to the alter, thinks that maybe Cas has calmed down enough to see reason and empathize with the urgency of Dean’s request. He takes the opportunity to lean back on his heels and take a deep breath, pulling his hands back to huff a wet, hot breath into his palms. There’s a reddened patch of skin of his thighs that he notices now, tender and stinging from the hot coffee he knocked over in his mad scramble out of the kitchen. He feels like Cas for a second, apparently impervious to pain and other physical sensations, and he’s little surprised that it took him this long to feel it.

“Allie isn’t safe,” Cas growls, fingers digging into the ground in search of purchase, “Azazel is coming; he’s building an army.”

Dean’s gut seems to slither, twisting around inside him to form new and interesting shapes, squirming until they’re tangled around the bones of his ribs and spine. It’s been ages since Cas has mentioned Azazel, since the angelic alter believed in imaginary enemies determined to slaughter him and his family. Dean can’t quite remember which one Azazel is – they’re all about the same, evil with equally sinister intentions – but he knows that Cas on a mission is a lot different than the regular ol’ Cas that Dean grew up with, that he grew to love.

He’s about to tell Cas that Azazel is gone, that there’s nothing they can do about it right now and that Allie is far more important than chasing some fictional demon, but Cas’ foot connects with Dean’s chest in a solid, powerful kick, and he’s flying backward far too fast to catch himself or get a grip on the slippery blades of grass.

Dean is rolling down the slope now – fuck – gaining momentum toward the icy river with frightening speed. He hears Cas shout something, doubting sincerely that it’s some kind of apology, before he catches a glimpse of Cas back on his feet and running toward the bridge.

Acting on instinct, Dean manages to dig his heels into the softening, soggy earth, slowing his downward spiral toward the river. He can hear his phone buzzing again, though he has no idea where it is. The sound of it punctuates his own erratic heart, his ragged breathing and ears flushed with blood that mimics a band of drums. He doesn’t know whether he fears more for his own life or Jimmy’s, doesn’t know if Allie’s okay or how long he’d survive if the river pulled him under.

He’s seen the articles detailing people’s death in this water, knows people who slipped quietly under and never surfaced again. Dean’s lost friends in this river, has been afraid of it for as long as he’s lived in this squalid town. He knew it was a bit of a risk to buy a home so close to the bank, but he never pictured in a million years that his own husband would kick him down the slope and run off, leaving him to die a slow, suffocating death.

Though he’s not rolling anymore, not actively moving closer toward the river, the bank is steep and Dean is painfully cold. It’s barely twenty degrees, still dark with only a slim golden horizon to drown out the sea of stars above them. His body aches so badly with the strain to keep himself still, to keep his heels buried firmly in the ground, and the rest of him is too cold to function properly.

“Cas!” He screams, though he’s not sure whether it’s a cry for help or to tell the alter to go fuck himself. “You asshole!”

Dean’s got to make it back up, needs to figure out a way to climb the stupid hill back to safety without slipping further down. Putting sneakers on before leaving was probably the smartest thing he could have done, because there’s no way he would have been able to save himself with bare feet.

Of course, he could be overreacting just a little bit. The river is slow today and there’s no ice to layer the top, nothing to get trapped under if he does actually fall into the water. He can swim – _kinda_ – and someone would see him if he were to float down the river a ways and call for help.

Christ, please don’t let it come to that.

Digging his fingers into the dirt, Dean flips himself over so that he’s on his stomach, burrowing the toes of his shoes into the soft earth to gain some leverage. One step at a time, he manages to claw his way back up the hill, his toes creating a sort of make-shift staircase as he goes.

He’s thankful his briefs are black.

When he finally makes it to level ground, Dean lets himself collapse and catch his breath. His whole body feels bruised now on top of everything else, the cold amplifying the aches and pains and nasty thoughts sprouting in his head. Jimmy has been off his meds for a few months now, and though he’s been transitioning pretty steadily since then, this is the first time Dean has truly regretted their decision to keep Jimmy drug free.

His nails are caked in dirt and bits of grass, and his shirt looks like someone beat him with a filthy rake and shovel. He definitely feels like it, too. Feels like punching something until his fists are as red and bloodied as his insides. Dean wants to just lay there until Cas leaves and Jimmy finds his way home, but Cas is crazier than he’s ever been and poor Allie could be awake right now, alone and scared and waiting for someone to show up.

Dean hates this. Hates this so much.

“Hey!” He hears, though it’s not the voice he was hoping for, “Dean!”

Anna is racing toward him, red hair loose and waving around her face like a wind-blown halo. Her eyes are wide and wild, fingers clenched tight around a ring of keys, mouth open and panting for breath. “Are you okay?” Then she’s there beside him, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from his verdant bed of pity and loathing. “Oh my God, you’re freezing!”

“Allie,” Dean snaps, the shivering making it harder to talk, “I told you to go to Allie, dammit.”

“Mom’s with her,” she promises, but that knowledge only pisses Dean off further, “when you said it was Cas, I figured you’d need some help.”

“Yeah, help meaning _you_ with Allie. You know how I – no, fuck it, we need to find Cas.”

Anna nods, licking nervously at her lips in diluted shame. She knows damn well that Dean would have never agreed to Eleanor watching his daughter; he would have gone home first to get Allie himself and let Cas get lost in city before he let that bitch into his house, but it’s already happened and there’s no point in wasting what little opportunity he has to get his husband and bring him back to safety.

“Where is he?”

“I think he’s headed to the bridge,” Dean says, brushing himself off, “he doesn’t even have shoes on. He’s got less on his body than I do, and you know how Cas is,” he explains, and Anna nods in understanding.

Castiel was the first alter, the one that’s been around almost as long as Jimmy’s been alive. Dean still remembers the way Cas would prance around Eleanor’s back yard, claiming to be an Angel of the Lord, hurting himself with rocks and sticks to prove his celestial prowess. He’s the best of the alters in some ways – kind, loyal, dedicated to protecting Allie – and yet also the most dangerous. He can’t feel pain, can’t feel the heat or the cold, which means bad news for Jimmy if Cas doesn’t knock off his shit and get back inside where it’s warm.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need to get something on?” Anna’s eyes trail over Dean’s body, the smallest amount of concern draped ineffectually over the lust he sees on her face, reminding him that there’s only a thin pair of briefs between her gaze and his body. It makes him feel uncomfortable, makes him want to curl in on himself and hide.

“I’m fine,” he dismisses, turning his attention toward the bridge, “he can’t have gone too far.”

They run, Anna going at a slighter faster pace than Dean can muster. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t in so much pain, wasn’t so fucking cold, but Anna doesn’t point it out or make him feel worse. She’s not even looking at him anymore, focused on the steadily growing bridge as they get closer with every step. She’s in her pajamas, too, and it shouldn’t make him feel as good as it does. At least he’s not the only idiot out here running half naked by the river.

Maybe after this, he’ll pack his family’s belongings and sell all their furniture, put their house up for sale and move somewhere warmer and safer. He doesn’t think he can do this in the middle of winter, not when it’s forty below and covered in two feet of powdery snow, not when he could slip into the river and get trapped beneath a thick layer ice.

Not when Cas can’t feel the cold, can’t even comprehend the damage that kind of weather could do to bare feet and exposed flesh.

They see him then, standing on the railing of the bridge, feet on the bottom rung with his shins pressed against the top, arms hanging limply at his sides. People are staring, some are pointing and taking pictures, and cars are honking as they drive slowly by. Cas looks so goddamn gorgeous like this, a sight that wrenches his heart until it’s as ruined as his clothes and shoes.

Dean shouldn’t be thinking about how proud he is being married to _that_ , how perfect his husband looks with the snowflakes fluttering around him, like Jimmy’s some kind of underwear model pulling off his best Blue Steel as he stares out over the water. Cas could leap from the bridge at any moment, could run into the street, could do anything that an indestructible angel can do that a human can’t, and he’d lose Jimmy forever.

“Jimmy!” Anna calls when they’re close enough for him to hear, but he doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t, because that’s not Jimmy; another thing Anna should already know, should be used to, but their mother’s blatant defiance and refusal to acknowledge his disorder always supersedes the evidence and sways Anna’s thoughts on the matter.

“Cas, buddy, what are you doin’?” Dean asks, getting as close to him as he dares. He can see Cas’ paling skin, pebbled and losing color from the Alaskan chill. His feet are on the frosted metal, which should be really fucking painful; Jimmy’ll be lucky if he makes it out of this without frostbite.

Seconds pass, or maybe it’s hours; Dean’s head is fogged, his vision tunneled with worry, so the passage of time ranks low on his brain’s list of things to worry about, but he knows there’s a distinct space between the time Dean asked his question and when Cas finally responds. It’s not much of a response, though – actually, knowing Cas, he’s not certain if the movement has anything to do with what Dean said.

Cas’ head tilts upward like he’s goddamn Simba, accepting the rising sun’s rays as they filter in through the clouds low on the horizon. His shoulders pull back, arms long and lifting as his palms cradle the open air. He’s beholding the river, king of all that he can see, and Dean thinks he’s going to be sick.

“I hear my brothers,” Cas quakes, low and grievous, “they’re coming to help.”

“Hate to break it to you, pal, but you’ve only got one brother and he’s kind of a dick,” Dean laughs, creeping closer. It was a humorless laugh, an empty, smile-free gesture, but he’s running out of ideas and filibustering only works for the government.

He’s close enough now that he can reach out and grab Cas’ leg, maybe get a solid grip around his thighs to keep him from going over. Cas is oblivious to Dean’s proximity, listening to a fictional band of angels playing their music in his head. It’s the first glimpse of hope Dean’s had since Jimmy transitioned and Cas darted out the front door, and he’s not about to wait around for Cas to make the next move.

“Jimmy! You’re _not_ an angel!” Anna shrieks unhelpfully, plucking a pebble from the ground and throwing it at Cas’ head. Like Eleanor, she seems to think his condition will suddenly disappear if they keep insisting it’s not real.

The pebble, small and insignificant as it may have seemed, has the effect of a domino knocking over a succession of blocks after it, a Jenga brick that topples the rest of the tower down.

When it hits Cas in the temple, he jerks sharply to the right, twisting his upper body so quickly that his balance wobbles and he starts to teeter. Dean has one of those dust-in-the-wind, soul searching montages in which Jimmy’s life flashes before his eyes, their entire friendship-turned-marriage, from their first kiss to the last one they shared in bed this morning, stale and slow with sleepy, languid intent.

Cas barely notices the way his legs seem to weaken beneath him, feet slipping on the metal with a hollow, high-pitched scrape. His fingers curl in slightly as though molded around a ball, arm reaching out to point at Anna in a way that promises pain and retribution. Dean’s seen this before, rarely - it’s been years since the last time Cas has tried to smite someone, and it was never directed at family. It almost makes him wonder if this is truly Cas, if it’s the same angel that tries to talk to cats and believes that Cupid branded his and Dean’s hearts on the day they met.

Anna’s fear is stunted only by confusion; she takes a step back, baffled, eyes focusing on the tips of Cas’ fingers as they clench into a fist then spread again. Cas seemed confused too, surprised by his inability to conjure whatever magic it takes to kill a person. There’s a flicker of recognition in Anna’s eyes, then, the sudden realization that Cas would have done something to her over a pebble if he were truly able to do so. She looks at Dean, and it’s clear they both have the same question lingering on their tongues: is this Castiel, or a new alter?

They don’t even get the chance to speak the words aloud before Cas’ balance is completely lost. The angel notices it plainly enough now, face contorting with shock as his legs strain against the rungs, that eerie sound scraping into Dean’s ears and making him quiver. The look on Cas’ face isn’t so much scared as it is angry: he doesn’t understand why he’s not able to right himself, can’t figure out why his powers aren’t working or keeping him steady. Dean darts forward; Cas is slipping, and there’s only a matter of seconds before his body topples forward and he falls face first into the dark water below.

The horrendous, overwhelming panic that pulses from the base of Dean’s skull into the rest of his body takes him over and he acts on pure instinct: one hand clutches the waistband of Cas’ boxers as the other catches onto Cas’ wrist, but it’s not quite enough to counteract the direction Cas is already heading over the side of the bridge. Anna screams - or maybe it’s one of the bystanders, he’s not sure – the shrill sound piercing through the otherwise quiet morning dawning over the city.

Then there’s a gasp, a rough intake of air as Cas folds and clings to the railing for dear life. Dean’s grip doesn’t yield; his right hand is an air-tight seal around his husband’s alarmingly cold wrist, the fabric of Cas’ boxers bunched tightly in Dean’s left. He’d have to be dead himself before he’d let go, purple and bloated with rot before he’d let the man he loves fall into the Chena river.

As if on some miraculous cue, Cas cries, “Oh fuck, Dean, _Dean_ , what – God, help!” And just like that, Cas is gone, leaving a confused, frozen Jimmy dangling from the icy rungs of a bridge he doesn’t remember being on.

“Jimmy,” Dean breathes, “it’s okay, it’s okay, I got you,” he promises, not letting go, not looking away, not letting the screams coming from Anna and whoever else distract him from making sure Jimmy is safe.

He thought it would be easier with his husband’s cooperation, but it turns out trying to rescue a person that’s aware of how much danger they’re in isn’t all that easy. Jimmy clutches at Dean’s skin, unable to find purchase, nails breaking his skin and bringing blood to the surface. Jimmy is jerking frantically, too scared to think rationally and let himself be lifted up. Dean can feel his own grip slipping, skin so dry there’s barely any traction where Jimmy’s grabbing at him – out of options and out of time, Dean does the only thing he can think of.

Bracing his foot against the lowest rung, Dean pushes off and forces himself to fall backward, pulling Jimmy over and onto the ground with him.

The sidewalk gravel feels miserable against his back, but his husband is safe and the pain doesn’t really matter in comparison.

Jimmy’s afraid of heights, can’t even climb a ladder or ride an escalator without feeling a little dizzy, so when Dean feels Jimmy shaking uncontrollably in his arms, he’s not sure whether or not it’s from the cold.

“Dean,” Jimmy whines, curling in on himself, “w-what –”

“Not now, ‘kay? Just, here,” Dean stands them both up and pulls off his shirt, ignoring the way it sticks to his skin where the dew and frost soaked through. He hands it to Jimmy, but he’s shivering too hard to take it and pull it on, so Dean helps guide his head and arms through the holes. “We need to get you home.”

Dean does what he can to keep Jimmy warm, hands rubbing vigorously over his husband’s shoulders and arms in an effort to stop the trembling, but when Jimmy takes his first few steps along the sidewalk, he hisses, feet kicking up in pain. “Fuck,” Jimmy spits, colorless toes curling.

He knew it – Jimmy’s feet must be killing him from the lengthy contact on the chilled metal. Dean steps on the heels of his sneakers and slips his feet out, leaning down to grab Jimmy’s ankles and guide his feet into still-laced Converse – ‘star shoes’, Allie calls them, her favorites – and hushes his husband’s protests. “I’m fine,” Dean assures him, despite the bite against his bare feet, “let’s go.”

Anna is still just standing there, gaping like a fish, eyes trained on Dean’s movements as he clothes her brother as best he can. Dean wants to yell at her, wants to call her all the revolting names he has brewing in his head, but he’s too overcome by relief to do anything but keep Jimmy close and walk him home. His heart is still wildly thrumming in his chest, his body vibrating like a tuning fork as the rest of the terror and adrenaline bleeds out of him in a rapid, sodden gush.

“Jimmy,” Anna squeaks, sounding very much like a scared little girl, like _Allie_ , “Jimmy, what was that?”

She trails behind them, barely a step or so back, keeping up without actually walking beside them. Dean wishes she were, if only so that he could glare at her more easily and salute her with his middle finger.

Jimmy is simply too cold and in too much pain to respond. Dean can tell he wants to, can see by the way his eyes fall and his lips curl downward that Jimmy feels horrible for whatever his alter has done, that he’d apologize if he could get his brain and lips to cooperate. He shouldn’t have to; it’s another stupid question that only goes to show how little anyone understands his disorder, how little Jimmy’s family cares about his struggle.

“How could you do that?” Anna pushes, spitting the words out with that same childish voice she uses for attention. “You could have killed yourself!”

“Knock it off,” Dean snaps, halting his steps. He turns to Anna with fire in his eyes, too amped up and freaked out to afford any kindness, to be calm. “Just shut up.”

“You called _me_ , asshole,” she says, the girlish squeak gone from her voice instantly. As much as Dean wants to pick a fight, wants to hash it out with his sister-in-law and defend Jimmy’s honor _again_ , the need to get inside and warm up coupled with the need to see Allie and make sure she’s safe overwhelms everything else.

He pivots on the pads of his feet, ready to keep going the short distance they have left until they’re home, but Anna grabs his arm and pulls him back around, eyes trained on the center of his chest. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Dean growls, impatient, jerking his arm out of her grasp. She’s staring at his chest, so he follows her stare with his own eyes and sees the budding of a heel-shaped bruise on the center of his chest. “It’s fine.”

Anna just shakes her head, saying nothing, but Dean knows she’s not letting it go. He’s sure he’s going to hear her nagging about it later if she ever manages to get him alone.

Jimmy tries to see what they’re talking about, but Dean won’t allow it. He keeps the arm draped over Jimmy’s shoulders firm, guiding them forward once again and going as fast as their rigid legs will take them.

When they finally make it home, Dean is exhausted. The adrenaline is completely gone, leaving him sluggish and drained in ways he hasn’t felt in years – five years, he thinks, since that nearly fatal episode that put Jimmy back on his medication, since he told Eleanor she wasn’t welcome in their home ever again.

He sends Jimmy upstairs to take a hot shower, kissing him lightly on the temple instead of the lips, not wanting to give their audience a reason to say something hurtful. He doesn’t actually care what Eleanor thinks – fuck her, fuck _all_ of them – but Jimmy’s in a tender state and he doesn’t want anything to trigger another alter, another episode.

Eleanor and Allie are sitting quietly in the study, reading together from one of Emmanuel’s many bibles. Allie is perched on her grandmother’s lap, her red hair pulled neatly back in a braid that wasn’t there this morning. She’s still in her pajamas, glittery green ones meant to resemble her favorite Disney mermaid, with fuzzy pink slippers on her little feet.

Anna seats herself at the table in the kitchen, tipping the coffee mug in her direction so she can see inside it, inspecting the coffee Jimmy had been sipping on before darting out the door. With a shrug and a funny twist of her lips, Anna knocks back the rest, smacking her lips at the taste when it’s finished. As tired as Dean is, he’d love to just sit at the table with Anna and do nothing, _think_ of nothing, but there’s still the very large problem of Eleanor being in his home, lap of full Allie, filling his daughter’s head with religious nonsense.

He’s about to head directly in the study to get it over with, but then it occurs to him that he’s still in his briefs and nothing else. Dirty briefs, actually, spackled with mud and grass to match the rest of him. He’d join Jimmy in the shower if he could, but Dean doesn’t think he trusts Eleanor enough not load Allie up in her car and drive off.

She could have done that while they were gone, though, could have just taken their daughter away to her home or somewhere else – but she didn’t. Interesting.

Dean gives himself about three seconds to wonder why that is, to let a tendril of gratitude wisp around his heart for the woman he hates so much. He knows better than to let it grow into something more, than to actually thank Eleanor or do something equally stupid, because the woman’s intentions are about as black as her heart. Dean’s learned that from experience.

“You okay?” Anna asks, keeping her voice quiet. This time the question is different, Dean senses. She’s not asking about the bruise.

“No,” he answers, and leaves it at that.

Anna pushes the mug away, filling the room with the sound of ceramic skating over wood, sighing. “You don’t deserve this, Dean.”

The words, echoes of recycled statements he’s heard before, hang stale in the air. She could mean any number of things: doesn’t deserve to be kicked, to have Eleanor in his home again after what happened the last time, to be stared at and gawked at whenever Jimmy transitions in public. And yet, despite the vagueness, Dean thinks he knows exactly what she means. Anna doesn’t think Dean deserves the burden of who he’s married to.

He wants to hear it anyway, wants to make her say the traitorous words aloud.

“What’s that?” Dean challenges, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s almost cruel what he’s doing, standing close enough that she can smell the earth on his skin, her eyes level with his navel. She’s never been subtle about her feelings, and he’s willing to bet her lack of compassion for her brother’s condition doesn’t just stem from misunderstanding.

Anna shifts in the chair, almost squirming, eyes rolling upward until she’s staring at him through the thick hood of her lashes. “It’s not fair, I mean. You deserve something better.”

Dean licks his lips. “ _Someone_ better, you mean.”

“Yes.”

He squats down then, balanced on the pads of his feet, eyes level with Anna’s. “Someone like you?” Dean gives her a moment to answer, eyes unblinking as he watches her. She swallows thickly, lips quivering as she opens them over a silent breath.

She’s about to speak, her cheeks flushed from heat rather than the cold, but he cuts her off with, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Anna’s up in a flash, faster than Cas had been when he jumped out of the same seat, anger and humiliation warring on her reddened features. She doesn’t even spare a glance back at Dean when she snatches her keys from the table with a huff, stomping out of his house in a tantrum like the child she often pretends to be.

It’s a shame, really; Allie adores her aunt, cherishes the fact that Anna has the same fiery hair that she does. His little girl is old enough to recognize her differences, to see that she doesn’t look like either of her daddies, but takes comfort knowing she’s not the only redhead in the family. Dean would love to have Anna around more often, to give Allie a youthful mother figure she could grow up with and emulate, and he’s sure Anna would love that, too. If only Anna could button up her disloyal fantasies long enough to do so.

He peers into the study, slowly, not wanting to make his presence known. He’s still undecided about whether or not he should throw some clothes on real quick - he’d just have to take the clothes right back off to shower and the clothes would be dirtied, such a waste – but Eleanor’s in there and he feels exposed enough as it is when she’s around.

Fuck it. Dean refuses to be cowed like that in his own home.

“Hey, Monkey,” Dean says, affectionate, opening the door.

Allie twists in her grandmother’s lap, eyes red-rimmed and watery to match the tear stains on her cheeks. She smiled brightly at the sound of Dean’s voice, wriggling down to the floor and bounding across the study to throw her arms around Dean’s neck. “You left,” she mumbles, lips pressed against his collar bone. He can feel the dampness of her cheeks against his skin, and it breaks his heart.

“Sorry baby. I had to help daddy, but grandma came to keep you company, right?” Dean says. Allie nods, but doesn’t let go. He rises to his feet and lifts his daughter up with him, supporting her weight with one arm while the other rubs soothing circles over her back.

Eleanor has turned the chair so that she’s facing both of them, face straight and unreadable as ever. The bible she’s holding is leather bound and worn, the same one Jimmy grew up with, the one he kept in the drawer on his nightstand like a talisman. Back when he still believed God was the only cure for his illness, that if he only prayed hard enough and long enough he wouldn’t be crazy anymore.

“You can leave now,” Dean intones, doing his best not to growl out the words. Eleanor lifts a single brow, and the look on her face spells trouble. The bitch is smirking, for chrissakes. It’s too early for this.

“I don’t think so,” Eleanor smiles, a sight that makes his skin crawl, “I think you and I should have a talk first.”

Dean almost wishes Anna was still here; he’d rip her a new one for letting Eleanor stick her foot in the door, for giving her the tiniest bit of leverage to latch on to and sink her talons in. “Nothin’ to say. You can leave or I can call the cops.”

She laughs now, which is never a good sign. “Please do. When they get here, I’ll be sure to tell them that you left your five year old daughter unattended because your mentally unstable husband tried to hurt himself. I bet they’d love that story so much, they’d share it with Child Protective Services.”

His fists clench involuntarily, choking invisible necks between his fingers, wanting nothing more than to punch this woman in the face until his knuckles are numb. This is exactly why Dean had banned her from his home all those years ago, why he hates seeing her snobby face or hearing her pretentious voice. He can barely subdue the more violent impulses when she’s around, can’t drown out the sirens that tell him to eliminate the threat.

The bigger problem at hand is the fact that she’s right, and they both know it. Dean fucked up majorly this morning by darting out the door without his daughter, by trusting Anna, by not putting some goddamn clothes on.

“Baby?” Dean whispers into Allie’s ear before kissing her forehead, “I need you to go upstairs while I talk to grandma, okay?”

He lowers her to the floor, carefully, his body aching and reminding him of the hellish morning it’s been so far. He can tell Allie doesn’t want to go by the way she’s clinging to him, by the quiver of her lower lip and the pout on her face, but she goes obediently and closes the door behind her.

“What do you want?” He demands, knowing already where this conversation is going. Eleanor doesn’t simply let things go out of the kindness of her heart.

She looks like she’s going to refute that for a moment, like she’s going to deny the leverage on her side, but then she simply tilts her chin up to steady her gaze and says, “Valentine is really quite a lovely little girl, Dean. I miss her.”

It’s really no surprise that she would treat her own granddaughter like a pawn on the chessboard between them, yet he feels that impish need to pick a fight anyway. “Still refuse to call her Allie, huh?”

“Valentine is her name, and calling her _Allie_ is just silly. The least you could do is call her Alexandra if you insist on using her middle name.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He hears the shame bullshit from Emmanuel all the time. “So, what, you want me to start calling her Valentine? That’s what you’re doing here?”

“I just think you should be honoring your late friend’s wishes, don’t you?” Eleanor’s hand drops the bible down to the seat, fingers trailing over the seams of the chair as she does so. Dean wonders if she does it on purpose, if she’s even aware of how much she looks like a storybook villain.

He also wonders how Eleanor could possibly stoop so low, could rub his best friend’s death in his face like a dog getting their nose rubbed in a pile of shit. Subtly is not one of her finer qualities, that’s for certain.

“You don’t think I am, huh?” There’s that imp inside him again, rearing its ugly head. Dean should be disengaging, calming down, and focusing on getting out this conversation with the fewest number of casualties possible.

“She wanted the best for her daughter. Is this really what you consider _the best_ , Winchester? Taking James off his medication, keeping Valentine locked away from her family like a princess in a tower – for goodness sake, Dean, all the bibles here are covered with dust,” she drones, wiping her hands on her thighs on cue, “I pray for your family every night. I constantly worry, never getting to see my own grandchild. Then Anna calls me this morning in a panic, saying James is pretending to be some renegade angel again and that Valentine was left home alone in the middle of it all. I can promise you that no mother would want _that_ for their child, to be left behind like some kind of afterthought.”

Dean’s skin flushes red, though he’s not sure whether it’s from anger or embarrassment or both. He hated leaving Allie alone, didn’t want to do it, but in a panic his brain told him that it would be okay, just while he tried to get the situation under control. He’d taken the appropriate steps, right? Jimmy was in imminent danger, but Allie was still asleep in her bed, dead to the world and what was happening with her parents. He called Anna, instructed her to rush over, and did what he could to keep his family safe.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling disgusted himself, doesn’t do anything to those unnatural feelings that swelled within him as he ran away from the house toward the alter responsible for this mess. The only thing keeping him from regretting his choice is the fact that Jimmy could be dead right now if Dean hadn’t of gone after him. His husband would have gone right over the railing and turned into fish food.

It kills him, though, that despite not knowing Charlie at all, Eleanor can use her against him like a weapon,  like a serrated knife to his ribs. Not a single day has passed since her death that Dean doesn’t wonder if he’s doing good enough, that he doesn’t second guess every decision, that he wishes Charlie could see how perfect and beautiful her daughter turned out to be.

“We’re doing just fine,” he settles on, not knowing what else to say, “and you can call the cops if you really want to, but you’ve got no proof. She’s not abused, and anyone with half a brain will see that.”

It’s a bluff, but Dean’s never been that creative of a liar and he hopes Eleanor doesn’t know him well enough to see the difference.

“I’m a doctor, Dean, you know that.”

“Of Medieval History or some shit, not medicine. Nice try.”

She smiles, and a smile should _not_ be that unsettling. “True, but one does not become a doctor in this small town without making connections. I have friends in high places, including a rather prominent child psychologist familiar with my son. It wouldn’t take much to pull some strings and make a few social workers dance like the puppets they are.”

It takes a minute for the words to really sink in, for Dean to understand the full scope of his mother-in-law’s threat. She’s seriously suggesting that she could manipulate the system and have Allie taken away, would have her own granddaughter sent into the system just to prove the point that she’s a big bad wolf. When Eleanor throws a punch, she definitely puts the brass knuckles on first, doesn’t she? Christ.

“Why would you do that?” Is all Dean can say.

She takes a step forward, unflinching. “Why won’t you let me see my grandchild?”

“You know why.”

“That was five years ago!” She yells, stepping even closer, getting right up in Dean’s face. “I made one mistake and you’ve been punishing me quite thoroughly ever since. I’ve had my nose in the corner long enough, and I want to be part of Valentine’s life – more than just supervised visits on major holidays. You’ve taken my son from me and robbed him of his faith, isn’t that enough? Or would you like to steal away my daughter as well? Lord knows she’s sweet on you, the poor girl.”

“Or what, you’ll have your friends take Allie away? Jesus, you are one nasty bitch.”

“I pray for your forgiveness, Dean, but I will not have you take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

“Mom?”

Both Dean and Eleanor turn towards the voice coming from the door, shocked into stillness as Jimmy pushes the door open and steps slowly into the study. It’s obvious what’s happening here, the way they’re squaring off like they’re in the old west, ready to see who has the quicker draw.

Jimmy looks so much better than he did before the shower: the color has returned to his skin, he’s clean and dressed in a casual pair of jeans and a dark blue t-shirt, and even his hair is combed neatly to the side in that perfect, slightly gelled way seen in magazines. Dean wants to reach out and pull him close, kiss the chapstick from his lips and wrap himself in the scent of Jimmy’s oatmeal body wash, but right now it’s good enough just knowing that he’s safe, that he’s warm.

“What are you doing here?” Jimmy asks, and it’s clear he’s no more thrilled about the situation than Dean is. The only difference is that Jimmy genuinely has no idea what’s going on or what he’s missed.

Dean would love to keep it that way. He wants to shield Jimmy from all the bullshit, from his crazy, Christian Scientist mother who thinks illness is just an illusion, that prayer will cure his condition if he just believes in it hard enough.

“I came to be with Valentine while you were playing make-believe,” she answers, shameless, “honestly, James, I thought this game was behind you. You were doing so well.”

“I was a robot,” Jimmy defends, eyes narrowing, completely ignoring the insults, “all that medication, it was too much. I couldn’t write.”

“But is writing really _necessary_ , James?”

“Yes, mom, I’m a writer. It’s how I make a living,” Jimmy growls, and Dean knows he need to put a lid on this conversation before it bubbles over and his husband transitions again.

“I’ll think about what you said,” Dean says, cutting in and interrupting them both, “I’ll call you.”

Jimmy gives him a sideways glance, more curious than accusatory, but the need to have Eleanor gone and out of their home trumps the need for explanation. Dean looks back at him, offering a wordless promise to explain everything later, after Dean showers and once they’ve had a chance to recover from their hectic morning.

“I look forward to it,” she says, the words slithering out of her mouth, slimy, both a promise and a threat.

As she slinks out of the room, she pats Jimmy’s shoulder in the same way a person would pat the head of a small, confused child: a frustrating mixture of pity and patronization - a difficult move the pull off considering Jimmy is taller than she is - but she manages it just fine.

When it’s just Dean and Jimmy in the room, the thickness of the tension in the air settles into something lighter, easier to breathe. It doesn’t disappear completely, leaving enough to keep the mood of the room awkward and edged, but then Jimmy steps closer and pulls Dean into hug. It’s a little weird, different than their usual embrace, missing that natural, relaxed component that eases them both into familiar comfort. Dean appreciates it nonetheless, pulls Jimmy in close, and lets out a long, overdue sigh.

“What happened?” Jimmy asks, hands smoothing over Dean’s bare back. Dean realizes then that he’s still pretty filthy, that Jimmy’s clothes probably won’t escape the embrace unblemished, but as much as he wants to step back and put a little space between his husband and the dirt, Dean would rather let himself be held.

It still feels too early to be having this conversation, too. He didn’t get to finish his coffee, hasn’t even had the chance to sit down and let the morning settle, and his thigh still stings from the burn and the budding winter outside. Whatever happened this morning with Cas – if that’s who the alter even was – still has Dean feeling a little queasy about the whole thing and he’s not at all ready to handle another transition.

He’d tell Jimmy to take a Xanax, but they knew things like this would happen. They talked about it to death, agreed to take him off the pills, and prepared themselves to deal with the consequences.

Dean just didn’t think they’d ever have to deal with _this_ , an alter running off and putting everyone in danger. He always thought he could trust Castiel, and even Emmanuel, so the worst he’d imagined happening was keeping Claire under control whenever she showed up and needed care.

He certainly didn’t expect blackmail to be part of the equation.

“She wants to see Allie more often,” Dean explains, planting a kiss on Jimmy’s cheek in the hopes it will keep him calm, “she says she’ll call CPS on us. She might be bluffing, but it’s kinda hard to tell.”

Jimmy tenses slightly in his arms, but doesn’t let go. “I figured as much, to be honest. It was only a matter of time. But I was asking about…the bridge, I guess. Was it Claire?”

“No, it was Cas,” he answers, and wants to leave it at that, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair to Jimmy, wouldn’t help either of them deal with it if it turns out Dean’s suspicions are right, “I think.”

Jimmy definitely tenses at that, goes completely still. “You _think_?”

Dean knows that neither of them want to consider the possibility that there’s a new alter. Claire showing up on top of Cas and Emmanuel had been hard enough.

“I’m pretty sure it was Cas, but he was just – I don’t know, he seemed different. He tried to smite Anna.”

When Jimmy pulls away, Dean’s heart sinks into the floor. His husband looks so confused it hurts, even though Dean can completely relate to the feeling.

“Anna was here?” Jimmy asks, eyes widening beneath pinched brows.

Dean rewinds the morning in his head, certain that Jimmy had seen his sister after coming back on the bridge. “You don’t remember?”

Jimmy just shakes his head, drops his gaze downward as if he’s ashamed by that. Maybe he is.

“I called her to be with Allie when I took off after Cas. She called your mom and joined me instead. Anna left already, though. No big deal,” Dean smiles, trying to brush the entire incident off. He really doesn’t want to have this conversation, and it turns out he doesn’t have the energy to force himself to either. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? I just – I’m tired, man. And uh, I should probably call Sam.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, wiping a hand over his face, “he’ll know what to do.”

Dean doesn’t go to work, despite Jimmy’s insistence that they let the day go back to normal. The thought of showing up at the studio, photographing a bunch of plastic smiles and photo-shopping them into oblivion would feel just as fake as it sounds. He can take a sick day, no harm no foul, and let himself come back down from the cliff the morning had perched him on.

He feels better being able to keep an eye on Jimmy, too, even though he wouldn’t admit it. Dean doesn’t have to, though. Jimmy’s not dumb and Dean tends to hover.

It’s a weekday, so Sam won’t be calling back until the evening when the world has tidied up their offices and gone home. Dean can only hope that Sam will actually have an answer, that he’ll think of something brilliant to hit Eleanor in the face with and the threat will dissipate as fast as her florid, syrupy perfume.

Allie’s okay – a little shaken up, sure, but okay. She’d woken up from the sound of the scuffle when chairs smacked the floor and the mug clattered across the table, when the front door swung open and Dean yelled out for Cas to wait. It’s scary how quickly Dean forgets that she’s only five, that the world is still a confusing, formidable force to her and most of her life has taken place within the four walls of their home. He forgets that she’s just a little girl, not an old soul, not a reincarnation of his friend that she looks and acts almost exactly like.

What Dean’s also forgotten is what life was like before she arrived, what he did on a daily basis before she gave everything more light, more meaning. The truth is that he doesn’t know what kind of power Eleanor has, or what she’s capable of doing with it, but he doesn’t doubt for a single moment that she’d rip Dean’s life apart on nothing more than a whim if it suited her needs.

He can’t blame her for wanting more time with Allie. The sun beams from her little pores, the moon shines from her eyes, and every lovely thing on the earth is reflected in her heart. Charlie was like that, too – so open, funny, warm – and Eleanor just wants a little piece of that happiness. Just wants to be the grandmother she always thought she would be.

Can he forgive Eleanor for this? For what she did when Charlie passed and Allie became a Winchester?

Probably not.

Hearing people call his daughter Valentine hurts, too. Sometimes he thinks Emmanuel does it just to piss him off, but it probably has more to do with the fact that Eleanor refuses to call her anything else. That alter is such an annoying suck up, he practically walks around with his mother’s tit in his mouth, shitting out the same lies and bullshit Eleanor spouts whenever she’s around. It’s like they think Dean’s not aware of what his own child’s name is.

Allie starts school this year, and on the first day of class when the teacher does the roll call, she’ll get to pick which name she goes by, what her classmates will call her until they all graduate and go off to college.

Ugh. He doesn’t even want to think about that. She’s not allowed to grow old and graduate, ever.

But the point remains the same: none of those things really matter, especially not if Eleanor follows through with her threat and has Allie taken away. Christ, Jimmy would blame himself for that, wouldn’t he? Yeah, he would. Jimmy would spiral and the alters would go out of control, and he’d be forced back onto his medication or sent to that awful place again. 

Dean wishes people could see what he sees when he looks at Jimmy, wishes more people understood the struggle his husband goes through on a daily basis.

Hardly anyone even knows what the hell the disorder is - they watch Sybil and think they’re experts, or think it’s a joke, or ramble off statistics like any of it means anything. It doesn’t help that some people with the disorder are committed, called crazy, or bogged down with so much medication that they’re hardly human anymore.

Jimmy had been like that: a quiet, nearly immobile creature without a single creative or original thought. He lazed in bed, rarely smiled, could hardly laugh at his own daughter’s jokes. It wasn’t good for anyone.

More than that, Dean wants to see him flourish, not just survive. Jimmy is a beautiful writer, a published author, known only by his pseudonym and the single novel he wrote years ago before Charlie’s death. Despite the speculation, Dean knows his husband isn’t just a one-hit wonder, isn’t the secretive recluse journalists so often accuse him of being.

Jimmy deserves success, to be prolific and loved by his fans, to enjoy the rewards of his hard work. Lord knows he has to work harder than most.

Even now, as they play outside with Allie, Jimmy has to keep himself in check. He has to be calm, must stay in control, must deal with the constant fear that he’ll suddenly lose time and open his eyes to a different scene, not knowing how long it had been or who’d been around in his place.

He blames himself for this morning just like he blames himself for everything else, regardless of what Dean says to try and convince him otherwise. What happened this morning wasn’t Jimmy’s fault, no more than the stars are at fault for glittering in the sky. It was Dean’s fault, really. He should have known that what he had to say was enough to scare Jimmy, enough to trigger a transition.

“Are you – did you mean what you said?” Jimmy asks, sitting in the padded wicker chair beside Dean, “are you going to do the documentary?”

It scares Dean, too. The world needs to know that people with Jimmy’s disorder, that those who suffer from dissociation aren’t liars needy for attention, aren’t wild or putting on a show.  He wants their daughter to grow up knowing how brave her daddy is, to see the powerful, long-lasting effects that abuse can cause to a child, even though they don’t know exactly what Jimmy went through before he was adopted.

He wants to do something more meaningful with his camera than make pretty people look prettier.

“Yes,” Dean answers, taking Jimmy’s hand in his own, “I think we need to.”

Jimmy doesn’t look like he quite agrees with that. He leans back into the chair, head tilting back, staring straight up at the sky. Dean can’t resist the temptation to kiss him, so he leaves a small, dry peck against Jimmy’s throat. Allie makes a playful noise of disgust, teasing her daddies about cooties before stealing a sip of Dean’s coke and running off, daring them to catch her.

“ _You_ need to,” Jimmy finally says, “but I get it. I won’t stop you.”

Dean would say something in reply, would fill his husband with promises that everything’s going to be okay and it will all work out for the best, that a documentary would only change their lives for the better, but the look on Jimmy’s face means he’s done; the conversation’s over.

He gives Jimmy a break, and chases after Allie instead.


	2. Chapter 2

When Dean wakes, it’s with a foot in his face and the smell of urine prickling his nose.

He’s cold, too – unreasonably so. When he peels his eyes open and looks across the bed, he sees that all the blankets are tangled up in a lumpy ball between him and Jimmy, messy red hair poking out from the mass in twelve different directions. Allie’s painted toes are right beside his lips, so he groggily kisses them and stretches out his sore, weary legs.

The fan is off, which is a little scary; Jimmy can’t sleep without the soft whir of the blades spinning above and lulling him, but Emmanuel doesn’t enjoy a cool breeze as he sleeps and requires as much silence as possible. Dean’s glad the fan is off despite the possibility it could mean his husband isn’t himself right now; with the dropping temperature outside and the covers stolen away, he would have been shivering and covered in goose-bumps.

It takes a few minutes, but he manages to gently crawl out of the bed without waking Allie. He inspects the sheet, finding the wet spot peeking out from the under the blanket she wrapped around herself. It’s been a while since she’s wet the bed, but Dean suspects it’s the aftermath of yesterday’s events. Allie’s never handled being alone well.

Jimmy’s awake, and Dean knows it’s Jimmy because Emmanuel rarely smiles, and when he does it’s never like _that_. The warm grin on his husband’s face is reassuring, a welcome sight, and yet somehow also a little suspicious.

“Hmm?” Dean groans, tongue too thick with sleep to summon real words.

Jimmy just shrugs, which looks kind of funny in his current position. “Morning.”

There are probably far more romantic things Dean could say, but he’s never been one to roll out of bed with a bounce in his step, so he counters with, “Coffee,” and some other strange, moping noise he can’t quite define.

They have a mattress protector covering their bed, so they don’t feel too guilty for letting Allie sleep a little longer while they brew up a pot and let the sunlight filter out the rest of the tired fog muddling in their heads. Jimmy pretty much keeps his hands on Dean at all times, on his shoulder or his hip, or lightly over the back of his hand. It’s nice, but also slightly annoying. Jimmy’s been a little clingy lately, ever since they stopped the meds, so Dean figures his husband is trying to compensate for the drama.

He shouldn’t have to. Dean tells him that.

Falls on deaf ears, of course – or rather, falls on ears that don’t believe it, on eyes that fear they’ll open one day and Dean will be gone.

Besides, it’s not like being touched in this way isn’t sweet, isn’t wonderful. Even if it is just a tad intense.

“She wet the bed,” Jimmy says after he’s had his first sip of coffee. It was an obvious, needless thing to say, but Dean knows where he’s going with it.

“Yep,” he says, “she’s five. It happens.”

Jimmy just frowns, unhappy. “My fault.”

He wants to argue the point, wants to remind Jimmy that no, it isn’t his fault at all, he wasn’t even _there_ for chrissakes. If anything, it was Cas’ fault - but that’s not enough of a delineation in Jimmy’s mind to help. It was Dean’s fault too for running out of the house so loud and destructively, knocking things over and cussing, leaving Allie behind.

Instead, Dean just sips his coffee and shrugs, then shakes his head for good measure. “We’ll make it up to her today.”

“What did you have in mind?” Jimmy asks, eyes lighting up. There’s not much to do in Fairbanks this time of year; it’s too cold to really enjoy anything outside, and yet there’s not enough snow to go sledding or build a snowman. They could go to the swimming pool, or maybe the library, but those aren’t places Dean feels comfortable going to yet. Jimmy could transition, and normally that thought doesn’t scare him, but after yesterday he’s had about all the excitement he can handle for the rest of the week.

“Not sure,” Dean admits, “when she wakes up, we’ll ask her.”

Jimmy nods, smiling. “Sounds good.”

They sit at the table like they do most mornings, just talking about little things and joking back and forth until their cups are empty and their minds of full of ideas on how to spend the day. Dean’s heart is beating a step faster than normal, and though he could play it off like he simply had too much caffeine, he knows it’s because he’s afraid of a repeat performance with Cas. 

Maybe that’s why he’s the one who sat closest to the door today, creating a barrier between Jimmy and the only point of escape.

When Allie finally wakes, Dean gives her a bath while Jimmy washes the blankets and her pajamas. Dean’s not that great at styling hair, but he does his best to tie her wet hair up into a bun on the top of her head. It’s essentially the go-to style since he can’t do much else. Finally, he slips a dress on her even though they don’t have plans to leave the house; she likes to feel cute, like a princess, so who cares.

Jimmy starts breakfast, and by the looks of the ingredients he has all over the counter, he’s making eggs benedict. Allie grabs a stool so she can stand beside her daddy, getting to watch and help when asked. It’s so sweet that Dean can’t help sneaking into the study, grabbing his camera, and snapping a few photos of them while they’re distracted.

“Gotta make a call,” Dean says when he’s done, setting his camera down on the table before giving them each a quick kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

Jimmy gives him a questioning look, but Dean leaves the room without answering.

He wanted to talk his brother yesterday when Sam finally called back, but he’d been too occupied with keeping an eye on his husband and making sure everyone stayed calm. Jimmy doesn’t always appreciate the gesture and complains when Dean becomes the self-appointed sheriff of his feelings. _I’m a grown man for fuck’s sake_ , he said, _I don’t need you to mediate my life_.

Right, like Dean’s some kind of referee, running around and blowing his whistle like a jackass.

When he’s back in his bedroom, he locks the door behind himself. He’s not entirely sure why.

Sam answers on the fourth ring, yawning into the phone. “What?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Dean chirps, knowing the perkiness of his coffee-fed voice will annoy his little brother even more.

There’s some rustling in the background, a slight static, then a huff of impatient breath before Sam finally replies. “You’re in a good mood. Guess everything’s fine, then?

“What? No – I mean things are _okay_ , but I need your advice. You know, the legal kind.”

“Of course you do,” Sam complains, but Dean can tell the annoyance in his brother’s voice is more perfunctory than genuine. “Let me guess: Jimmy?”

It takes a moment for Dean to persuade his insides not to twist up. He hates when people assume Jimmy is always the source of his trouble, and hates it even more when they’re right. “Kinda,” Dean admits, running a hand through his hair. “Remember Eleanor? She, uh…threatened, I guess, to call child services on us if we don’t let her see Allie more often. I’m pretty sure it was just a bluff, but I don’t want to take any chances. Is that – can she really do that, or what?”

He can practically hear the bitch face Sam is pulling right now, loud and predictable as it is. “Well, yeah.”

If it weren’t for the solid knowledge that Dean’s heart didn’t abruptly grow legs, he’d think it ran straight up his throat and out of his mouth for how tingly and bloodless he suddenly feels. “Are you shitting me right now?”

“Dean,” Sam scolds, and this time the annoyance in his voice is sincere, “obviously she can call CPS any time she wants. There’s no law saying she can’t, and unless you can prove malicious intent in court, she wouldn’t get in trouble for it, either. But just because she calls doesn’t mean they can take Allie away.”

“Pretend I’m an idiot, okay? I know that’s hard to do with how obviously brilliant I am,” Dean intones, starting to feel the telltale prickle of anger, “but explain it to me like I’m not.”

Sam sighs. “It’s really not that complicated. Eleanor can call CPS, but she doesn’t have any control with what happens after that.”

“She seems to think so,” Dean adds, still not quite understanding, “she said she has some powerful friends.”

“Okay, well. That’s great for her, I guess. Still doesn’t change the facts. If she calls CPS, then a social worker will be sent to your home to talk to Allie and decide whether or not she’s in immediate danger. They’ll ask for your side of the story, might make Allie take her clothes off to check for bruising or burns, but unless Allie says she’s being abused or looks like she needs to be rescued right away, they won’t take her from you.”

“But…” Dean starts, starting to feel nauseous, “she does have bruises, Sam. She’s a kid, and kids have bruises.”

“Right,” Sam laughs, drowning out the background noise of whatever he’s doing, “and the social worker will know that. They’ll look for unusual bruises. Big ones. The kind that don’t come from regular play. If they find something they think is suspicious, they’ll ask her how it happened.”

“Should I – do I need to talk to Allie about it?”

“Nah, I doubt you have anything to worry about. Honestly, I don’t think Eleanor would risk it. If her goal is to see her granddaughter more often, then having Allie taken away by the state would only make that harder. She’s just trying to scare you.”

Dean hums at that, still feeling a little sick but better now with that information. It only intensifies his need to drop-kick Eleanor’s smug face, but Sam’s right; her threat is harmless.

“So I can tell her to fuck off now, right? She can choke on a dick.”

“Um,” Sam sputters, clearing his throat, “unwanted image, gross. And no, I wouldn’t do that either.”

Now Dean’s just getting irritated. “Why not?”

“Come on, Dean. Give it a rest.”

“No, really, I want to know why you’re defending that bitch,” Dean complains, pacing around the room now, eyes glancing out the window at the morning snow, “after everything she’s done.”

“I’m not saying you should buy her a friendship bracelet, but why would you intentionally escalate the situation?” Sam’s voice is thick with impatience, like he’s talking to a small child. Sure, Dean may have instructed him to do exactly that just a minute ago, but that invitation came with a very quick expiration. “Aren’t you tired of it?”

“Of what?”

There’s a pause, then, “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Wait, what? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Say hi to Jimmy and Allie for me,” Sam concludes, and hangs up the phone.

Dean clenches the phone in his hand, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He has to fight the urge to call his brother back, to demand an answer for whatever the fuck that was, but Sam can be about as cryptic as a crossword puzzle and Dean’s never been particularly great at those.

He doesn’t consider himself a violent person by nature, even if Jimmy’s family provokes that darker side of him more often than he’d like to admit. Lately those urges have been getting harder to resist, cresting on some kind of fine line he’s been walking on for a while now. Even Anna is grating against his nerves more than usual, her fingers tugging gently on that final straw without actually pulling it free, and Dean doesn’t know how much more of it he can take.

A part of him wishes Jimmy could still be on his medication, as selfish as that thought sometimes feels. Jimmy was so disengaged from himself on those pills, living in a torturous limbo that left him clutching at all broken pieces of himself, dragging around the corpses of his alters, unable to laugh or cry or dream.

Dean felt so alone then, practically in mourning, and Allie ended up missing both of her daddies instead of just one. But some days, the loneliness he felt during those years of pills and therapies pales in comparison to what he feels when the alters come around, when his husband’s body is there but he can’t reach out and touch him, can’t talk to him, can’t kiss.

And it’s all made worse when people make shitty comments about their life, about the drama, about what Dean could be doing better that he isn’t.

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft rapping on the door, and he knows it’s Jimmy without having to ask. One of the benefits to being with a person so long is knowing the little things like that, the type of benefits that those judgers and complainers wouldn’t know anything about. Nothing to do with the fact that Jimmy’s the only other adult in the house, of course.

“Just a minute,” Dean calls out, scrubbing his face with the rough pads of his fingers. He needs a minute to compose himself, to let the budding feelings of betrayal from his own brother fade before another day spirals out of control.

“Dean,” Jimmy pleads, the doorknob juddering, “ _Dean_.”

The fear in his husband’s voice startles Dean from the bed, and he finds himself retracing his every step since they awoke, wondering what he could have done to inspire the kind of worry he’s hearing now. He leaves the phone on the nightstand, then crosses the room and opens the door.

Jimmy is scowling, and really, it’s starting to feel like Dean can’t do a single goddamn thing right.

“What?” Dean snaps, more harshly than he intended. Jimmy recoils, the sadness in his eyes intensifying and blotting over the fear and anger.

When Jimmy doesn’t answer, it takes Dean a moment to realize that it’s not because he’s searching for the right words to say. Jimmy’s peeking slyly over Dean’s shoulder into the room, at the bed, at the lamp, and – oh, he’s looking for the phone.

Dean opens the door wider and steps aside, stretching out his arm in invitation. He’s not sure he understands what’s going through Jimmy’s mind, but whatever it is, Dean’s willing to appease it.

“I don’t like locked doors,” Jimmy explains, though it’s something Dean already knows, has already heard a million times.

“I know.”

“Locked doors feel like secrets,” he adds, and Dean’s heard this too, “and I don’t like secrets, either.”

“Baby, come on,” Dean says, tired, almost pleading. The day is still young, still salvageable, but his skin is starting to itch from all of the scrutiny aimed in his direction. He doesn’t know why he locked the fucking door, but it happened and time travel doesn’t exist yet, so he’s stuck with whatever consequences are surely brewing up in Jimmy’s head.

Jimmy’s arms are crossed over his chest, tight and defensive as he makes his way across the room and plucks Dean’s cell from the nightstand.

Whatever secret lover Jimmy is undoubtedly looking for, he’s not going to find it.

Dean exhales, collecting himself, then approaches Jimmy carefully and pulls him into an easy hug. His hair smells wonderful, almost girly, a soapy citrus that Dean doesn’t recognize but makes his mouth water instantly. He can feel the muscles in Jimmy’s back soften against his chest, as he drops his head back to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

“Baby,” Dean says again, gentler, lowering his nose to smooth over the tanned skin just behind Jimmy’s ear. The smell is stronger there, sweeter, blended with something muskier like cocoa butter. It’s calming. “What’s got you so riled up?”

Taking a steady step to the left, Dean guides them both down to the bed, falling as carefully as he can onto the bare mattress. It’s not a graceful movement, it’s actually awkward as hell, but the mattress is bouncy and Jimmy giggles so he still considers it a win.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Sam,” Dean answers, and of course he’s being honest. Jimmy nods, but Dean can’t tell whether his husband believes him or not, so he adds, “Obviously.”

“No,” Jimmy protests, because he’s as stubborn as he is handsome, and good lord is he ever, “it’s not obvious when the door is locked.”

Cautiously, slowly as if testing the waters, Dean rolls himself on top of Jimmy, straddling those narrow, barely clothed hips. He braces himself with one hand on each side of Jimmy’s shoulders, then chastely kisses the corner of his mouth. It’s almost a tease, a little preview of Dean’s unspoken offer should Jimmy decide he wants it. “God, you’re hot.”

A subtle blush creeps over Jimmy’s skin, tinting his cheeks a warmer hue. Dean leans down for another kiss, one far less chaste than the first, but Jimmy dodges the motion with the turn of his head and an unexpected frown.

“ _Dean_ ,” he pushes, voice annoyed, and puts a lid on the sensual mood Dean’s trying to create.

“ _Jimmy_ ,” Dean teases. He lowers his weight to give his arms a break, resting on his elbows now. “You really think I was in here talking to someone like _that_?”

He doesn’t outright say what he’s certain Jimmy’s delicately accusing him of, doesn’t even want to say the ugly word that kills and buries so many marriages, the word that drove Jimmy’s father away from Eleanor and out of their lives for good. It bothers him that his husband would think Dean’s capable of such a thing, but it doesn’t really _hurt_ him, either. Jimmy is insecure. They both know this.

“I’m a handful,” Jimmy sighs, keeping his eyes averted to the side, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But _that_ hurts Dean, deep into the unrelenting core of him, the part of himself that will love Jimmy endlessly regardless of the cost. His husband could be driving a blade into his chest, straight into his heart and up to the hilt, and Dean would use his last, blood-soaked breath to profess his love and offer forgiveness.

He hates it when Jimmy thinks of himself so poorly, when he believes himself to be so disposable like a pretty placeholder until something better comes along.

“Hey,” Dean wedges his hand between the mattress and Jimmy’s cheek, turning him back so he can look into those beryl blues, “you and me against the world, remember?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, but he doesn’t look convinced, “You and me…and Cas, and Emman –”

Dean shuts him up with the press of his lips, rolling his hips down and drawing out a hiss from Jimmy’s mouth that he swallows gladly, eagerly.

That citrus scent floods Dean’s senses, and he can taste it when he drags his tongue over Jimmy’s clean, freshly shaven jaw down to his neck, stopping over a heated pulse point that feels particularly soft against his lips. Jimmy giggles again; it’s Dean’s favorite sound, even though his husband insists otherwise ( _I don’t_ giggle _, dammit_ ). The sound drives Dean wild, so he can’t be blamed for the way his lips seal excitedly over Jimmy’s skin.

He uses his slightly taller stature to his advantage, pinning Jimmy to the bed like he’s on a mounting board, spreading those pretty legs wide like wings on display, one hand fixed behind each knee. He’s still sucking on Jimmy’s pulse, drawing as much as he can to the surface until his husband is good and marked. When Dean finally pulls away so he can whisper sweet, filthy nothings in Jimmy’s ear, there’s a rosy bruise left on his neck. It’s purpling and victorious and Dean’s going to love looking at it every day for the next week at least.

“Gonna fuck you,” he whispers, lowering one of Jimmy’s legs to wrap it around his waist, freeing a hand to toy with the waistband of Jimmy’s sweats, “just how you like it, baby.”

Jimmy lets out a breathy whine, and the sound is easily another favorite, one that goes straight to the _want_ swelling against the fabric of Dean’s own sweats. His hand slips easily past Jimmy’s waistband, fingers curling around the hot, velvety flesh he finds there, giving it a few teasing tugs until the whine becomes a needy moan. Dean’s mouth waters again but this time it’s not from the sweet, almost tangy scent that lured him onto the bed in the first place.

Dean’s not exactly hungry for cock, but he loves the way he can take his husband apart piece by piece with nothing more than a deep swallow, the way he can make Jimmy come so hard that he shakes and shudders with aftershocks. Jimmy tastes so good, too, all hot and creamy on his tongue, and it’s that thought that has Dean crawling backward on the bed until he’s kissing the dark patch of hair just below Jimmy’s navel.

“But first, I’m gonna blow you,” Dean promises, lips brushing gently over the head, “want you to come in my mouth.”

Jimmy’s half-lidded eyes close then, mouth dropping open as he lets his head fall back onto the pillow, hands searching for purchase against the bare mattress but finding none. His back arches the moment Dean licks at the slit, and yeah, Jimmy’s already coming apart just the way Dean loves, melting into the bed and purring exactly how he should.

Dean could take his time, but he’s too excited to be patient. He wraps his mouth around the head and sucks, working his way toward the base, letting Jimmy’s girth spear past his widening lips and press insistently at the back of his throat.

“Oh,” Jimmy breathes, his hands still gripping at the surface of the bed, hips twitching up and chasing the heat of Dean’s mouth, “ _oh_.”

Maybe _all_ of the noises Jimmy makes are his favorite.

No matter how many times Dean has done this, it still takes a moment for his throat to relax enough at the intrusion to allow Jimmy deeper, to finally get his lips pressed firmly against the base where the smell and the taste of his husband is the strongest. He keeps his tongue broad and curled around the length, swallows, then hums in pleasure at the way Jimmy’s hands finally find Dean’s hair hold tight.

From there, it’s easy work to get Jimmy completely unraveled.

He bobs his head at a neutral pace, slow how his husband likes it but electric enough to have him whimpering in minutes. He keeps his jaw open and slack, lips wet as he glides smoothly up to the tip and back down, swirling his tongue over the head and moaning at the way his jaw aches at the base.

Jimmy’s shaking in no time, encouraging the building pleasure as he weakly thrusts into Dean’s mouth, holding Dean’s head down longer and longer each time the entire length is taken.

Dean can’t get enough of the way the head feels as it slips down into his throat or the way Jimmy’s hands tremble when they lock Dean in place once his lips are back against the soft, dark hairs. He can feel his throat muscles fluttering as they work to keep Jimmy’s length accommodated, can feel that familiar pulse in the sensitive veins just beneath the aching, silky skin. His husband is close, so close, and soon Dean will get to taste the reward of the hard work he enjoys so much.

When Jimmy’s hands let up and he’s free to bob his head again, Dean takes the opportunity to clutch Jimmy’s wrists and hold his hands to the side against the bed. His husband moans in protest, but Dean makes it worth it by hollowing out his cheeks and sucking hard, focusing all of his attention on the bundle of nerves beneath the head. Then Jimmy’s coming, whole body quaking with the force of his orgasm, hot spurts of come pooling on Dean’s tongue that are gratefully swallowed. He keeps his lips sealed around the tip, coaxing every last drop and shiver from his husband until Jimmy’s breathless and a boneless puddle on the bed.

Dean slithers back up the bed in sinuous movements that drag his baggy clothes lightly over Jimmy’s exposed skin, making him hiss and cling to Dean’s arms.

“Love you,” Dean says, words dancing over the bruise he left on Jimmy’s neck.

It’s been a while since they’ve been able to do this – a long while, actually, so Dean feels the pressure to memorize every hitched breath, every line that frames the set of Jimmy’s smiling eyes, the way the color of his husband’s lips glows with a deeper sheen as he licks and bites them in pleasure.

They never got to have these moments when Jimmy was medicated. They’d be lucky if he managed to stay hard long enough to climax – and for Dean, it wasn’t much fun being the only one to get off. It made him feel gross, almost predatory, to be inside his husband and over him, chasing his own orgasm while Jimmy was soft and faking passionless moans. It’s one of those things married couples don’t talk about. Or if they do, they end up fighting and resenting each other for making the other feel so goddamn inhuman.

But now he gets this: Jimmy, sweaty and shaking as the last of the aftershocks run through him, chest rising and falling with deep breaths to steady the thunderous beat of his heart. Dean gets to smile into the crook of his husband’s neck, gets to reach into the nightstand for the bottle of lube without feeling like he’s about to fuck a spiritless blow up doll.

“Mmm,” Jimmy hums in agreement, kissing along the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder, “love you, too.”

Lube in hand, Dean sucks on the bruise once more to keep it dark, then squeezes enough into his palm to coat his fingers. He tosses the bottle somewhere onto the floor, too excited to bother with where it lands, and presses a slick finger against the tight ring of muscle.

“Daddy!”

Allie’s voice is still distant, but they can hear her footsteps growing louder as she makes her way down the hall. Jimmy stifles a laugh as he pushes Dean’s hand away and pulls up his sweats, rolling off the bed quickly enough to disguise their activities before their daughter comes into the room.

Dean groans and drops face first into the mattress, making pathetic little noises of pity for himself. All that _want_ is still building low in his belly, but hearing Allie’s voice is certainly the quickest way to kill the mood and flag his desperate erection. He still needs a moment to collect himself and allow his poor dick to wilt, so he turns his face into the crook of his arm and curls his legs up to wait for the urges to subside.

Then Allie’s in the room, and Dean can hear her wrap her arms around Jimmy’s leg with a youthful, feminine sigh. Dean peeks out through the sliver of space between his arm and the mattress to watch the exchange.

“Hi sweetie,” Jimmy greets as he tucks a stray curl of hair behind her ear, “what are you doing?”

“Looking for you,” Allie grumbles, then looks toward Dean with a lifted brow. “Are you fighting?”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow in confusion, and Dean realizes he’s doing the same. “No, baby, why would you think that?”

Allie glances back and forth between Dean and Jimmy, eyes curious and disbelieving as if investigating some kind of criminal case. “He’s sad,” she clarifies, pointing at Dean, “that’s what he does when he’s sad.”

“M’not sad, Monkey,” Dean lifts his head enough so she can hear him, can see his face as evidence. “Just tired.”

The look on her face is one that is unconvinced, and it reminds him that she’s far too young to be this well seasoned in the art of expressive interpretation. It’s proof of adaptation, that extreme emotional climates make for precocious little girls with too many questions and not enough trust.

“Promise?” Allie looks up at Jimmy now, searching his eyes for any indication that they’re lying or trying to hide something from her, and it’s definitely more than enough to drain the last of the humming current from Dean’s body.

Dean pulls himself up on the bed and trades a deliberate glance with his husband, sees the same level of sickening guilt in his eyes that Dean knows must be reflected in his own. He’d already been feeling like a shit parent after yesterday, and the fresh reminder that they’ve failed their daughter enough times for her to assume the worst in every situation feels like a finger jamming into a bullet wound.

“Nothin’ to fight about, baby. Promise.” Dean winks for good measure, giving Allie the cheesiest smile he can muster to mask the pain beneath his features.

“Okay.” Her acceptance is quiet and Dean wishes he weren’t so helpless concerning the matters of a young girl’s heart. “Can I stay the night at Auntie’s?”

Dean opens his mouth to offer his approval, but promptly closes it when he remembers the way his last conversation with Anna went. They’ve always danced around each other with light, awkward steps, but they rarely acknowledge Anna’s admitted feelings for him. And when they do, it’s usually done with careful words and gentle apologies rather than prodding at the ugly, unpleasant truth.

Anna wouldn’t punish Allie for Dean’s crime, though. He’s certain of it. Allie is the olive branch between him and everyone else, the downy white dove of peace that keeps him and Jimmy in the land of good graces despite going off the medication and putting them all at risk.

“Sure,” Jimmy answers without apprehension, oblivious to his sister’s dirty secret and Dean’s guilt for keeping it that way. “I’ll call her.”

Jimmy picks her up and holds her against his hip with one arm and kisses her forehead. It’s a shame Dean left his camera downstairs.

“Rain check?” Dean pleads as Jimmy starts making his way out of the bedroom, very much wanting to pick up where they left off as soon as humanly possible. Jimmy smirks and gives him a merciful nod, thank Christ. It’s been a while since they’ve had a night to themselves, and Dean wouldn’t mind celebrating their alone time loudly and repeatedly –

Except now Jimmy is stilled in the doorway, and Allie is giving him a strange, deciphering look.

“Dean,” he says, voice suddenly dark, “we have much to discuss.”

The man in the doorway is not his husband. Dean knows it like he knows the Earth is round, that grass is green and Led Zeppelin is the greatest band that ever jammed beneath the sun. The body might look the same, the voice might have that same whisky tenor, but Dean’s not looking at Jimmy anymore.

It’s Emmanuel, and that really fucking sucks.

“Manny,” Dean sighs, dropping back onto the bed with a frustrated grunt. “What a surprise.”

Emmanuel says nothing, but the look he’s giving Dean over his shoulder promises him that he’ll be back and they’ll be discussing whatever the hell he wants to talk about.

Dean’s got a pretty good idea of what that is, and he’s not fucking happy.

☼   ☼   ☼

“Have fun, Monkey,” Dean says against Allie’s hairline as he gives her a goodbye kiss. He hands her sparkly blue Frozen backpack to Anna, who takes it gingerly and with lingering fingers. She’s staring at Dean with owlish, servile eyes. It’s certainly more familiar, par for the course. He doesn’t like the way it sends an uneasy tingle down his spine but it’s unquestionably better than when she fixates on him with a tender brand of lust.

It makes him feel trapped and squirming like a beetle caught in syrup, suffocates him with the gentle strength of a pillow held tightly over his face.

“We’ll have fun,” Anna promises, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He shrugs her off when the moment lasts too long, becomes too intimate, and Emmanuel clears his throat in reprimand. That particular alter believes Anna to be a timid damsel incapable of feeling anything ungodly for another, especially a married man, so the noise is reminder that Dean should be more polite to his guests.

As if putting up with Emmanuel isn’t enough, isn’t proof that Dean is a goddamn saint.

Then the red haired girls are gone, and Dean knows Allie will come back with a bright smile and a new manicure and hours’ worth of stories he’ll have to listen to tomorrow.

The door is barely shut and Emmanuel is already in his face, glowering at him with that holier-than-thou sneer and it’s times like these that Dean has a hard time separating his husband from the alters. Jimmy is so hot when he’s angry, and Dean’s still a little worked up from their earlier activities, so of course the bitter resentment he feels for Emmanuel is laced with a little desire and the urge to lean forward and kiss the scowl from his face.

But ol’ Manny would probably have a stroke if that happened. Might even slap Dean across the face like a scandalized nun.

“Dean,” he says first, as if the name is soaked in salt, “You mustn’t do the documentary.”

“ _Manny_ ,” Dean mocks, knowing full well how much the alter hates that nickname, “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

They square off in the entryway like cowboys at sunset, and Dean feels a bit of undeserved pride being a full inch taller than his nemesis.

Emmanuel takes a deep breath and a step backward, probably feeling _too gay_ standing as close to Dean as he was. Dean’s tempted to follow him with a forward step of his own, is pissed off enough to really antagonize the alter stealing his husband’s body, but he has to remind himself that he’s not the one with the real power here. Emmanuel has what Dean wants – Jimmy – and could hold that leverage over Dean’s head for as long as he feels like it.

“It is a terrible idea. Surely you are not that selfish.”

“Some would argue that I’m not selfish at all; Jimmy happens to think I’m rather generous, actually. Particularly with my mouth,” Dean says, then licks his lips, “tell me, Manny – is Jimmy’s dick still wet with my spit? Bet that’s mighty uncomfortable for you, huh?”

Emmanuel huffs so fiercely that Dean imagines a billow of smoke mushrooming from his nostrils. He tries not to laugh, tries not to mock the alter any more than he already has, but it’s simply too funny and ridiculous to resist.

“I’m calling Eleanor,” Emmanuel announces as he strides past Dean, not slowing when Dean tries to reach out and grab hold of his arm.

“Are you kidding me? What are you, some kind of tattle-tale? Calling mommy ‘cause I’m being a big bad meanie?”

“You clearly are not seeing this for what it is,” Emmanuel insists, jerking out of Dean’s reach, “I thought you loved Jimmy. I thought you wanted to protect him.”

The accusation is ironic and feels unnatural, unfair. Emmanuel’s very existence hurts Jimmy, puts him at risk, exposes their family to unrelenting ridicule and gossip. He robs Jimmy of valuable time, of memories, of the ability to make choices for himself and their relationship. Dean would say as much, but that horse has been beaten to bloody nubs, revived, and beaten all over again. Their fists are still covered in the remnants of their last conversation, from the latest round of abuse the subject has taken.

Emmanuel had been born from pain, pressed into the mold of old scars and fears, animated with the breath of Eleanor’s disdainful hiss. On the heels of such a beautiful, significant night, he slithered out of the grass and bared his sharpened teeth, biting and infecting their lives with his pungent, paralyzing venom.

That’s what the documentary is about, what people need to see: the ugly, devastating truth of the disorder. It’s so misunderstood and disbelieved that Jimmy’s only options are suffering through it or drifting through life in a hollow, foggy haze.

Dean’s been protecting Jimmy from each of those demoralizing fates nearly all of their lives. Loves him too much to watch his husband sink when it’s so much easier to help him swim.

And Eleanor – Christ, she’s probably the last person Dean wants to see right now, right along with Emmanuel. Having those two together in the same room is a lot like being stuck in a boiler watching as his flesh bubbles from his bones. He’d rather swallow a handful of razorblades and smile through the way it perforates his insides than listen to Jimmy’s mom and Jimmy’s religious alter have a conversation.

But as Emmanuel grabs Jimmy’s phone from the counter and dials her number, taking in his appearance unhappily in the sliding door’s reflection, Dean remembers his earlier conversation with Sam. He remembers that he’s not completely weaponless in this battle, that he has a few choice words of his own to share with his dear mother-in-law and tonight might actually be the perfect opportunity to hash it out. Allie’s safe at Anna’s place for the night and Eleanor won’t be able to use her as a token to be traded in for prizes.

“She’s on her way,” Emmanuel informs him, setting the phone carefully down with precise, economic movements. He’s left handed and near sighted, too, which has always poked and prodded at Dean’s implacable curiosity. It explains Emmanuel’s quick pace toward the stairs and the way he stubs his toes on the first step; he’s got his own place in Jimmy’s wardrobe and a pair of prescription lenses he’s going to get, just like always. He’ll come back down looking like a sexy, nerdy teacher, and that pesky line between Husband and Alter will be blurred again.

Jimmy looks good, dammit, and all the alters are in Jimmy’s body. Not Dean’s fault that his dick can’t tell the difference.

Dean contemplates putting more clothes on, but he doesn’t really feel like going through the effort of putting clothes on for guests that will just be picking him apart.

Not to mention the hilarious little fact that Jimmy’s dick can’t tell the difference between who’s in control of the body either. Dean’s shirtless form does things to Jimmy’s body, things that frustrate and humiliate Emmanuel and his delicate, heterosexual sensibilities.

Besides, when Eleanor was here just yesterday, Dean had only his briefs and nothing else. No one can accuse him of not being consistent.

He waits patiently in the kitchen until Emmanuel comes back down, fully dressed in an outfit that looks like it came from some preparatory school catalogue. It’s a far cry from Jimmy’s usual jeans and t-shirt look, and the jury’s still out on whether or not that’s a good thing. Dean can’t get enough of the sexy schoolboy look, like someone shook open the pages of a Bible and out dropped Emmanuel in his navy blues and heather grays. He can, however, get enough of the alter. When it comes to Emmanuel and all of his maddening, uptight bullshit, Dean’s cup runneth over – and then some.

The alter does look mighty fine, if not a little over the top, and it makes Dean smile wryly to see him done up in all his glory. Emmanuel must be dressing up even more than usual in anticipation of Eleanor’s arrival, which is both sad and hilarious. He’s such a brown-nosing momma’s boy, the very embodiment of everything Eleanor ever wanted in a son, right down to his gospel praising hands and narrow-minded, conservative viewpoints.

He’s wearing some kind of dark blue, form fitting sweater over a lighter blue button-up shirt, matched with equally curve-hugging pants that might be some kind of corduroy or other soft, textured fabric. For a man who claims homosexuality is a sin, who nags Dean to keep his eyes and impure thoughts to himself, he certainly doesn’t mind dressing as though he secretly loves the attention it brings.

Manny knows what he’s doing. Knows what it does to Dean. Funny how they both like to hurt each other in that way, to make the other desire the body they can’t have.

“Perhaps mother can talk some sense into you,” Emmanuel starts, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, “and it’s a shame she won’t get see Valentine.”

Dean tries not to shudder. Mary is his only mother and Eleanor hardly qualifies for that title, even for Jimmy. “Yeah. Real shame,” he deadpans, but the alter apparently sees right through it.

“She’s her grandmother,” Emmanuel argues, and it sounds a little too similar to everything Dean heard yesterday.

“She’s Satan incarnate.”

“Eleanor can hardly be blamed for what happened. The hoops you force that woman to jump through would make any sane person snap. Valentine needs a strong female role model since she’s being deprived of one at home.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean takes in a long, steady breath and gives himself a moment before responding. It’s another old argument, one that doesn’t really bother him anymore or incite those violent impulses that used to so often accompany Emmanuel’s barbed jabs, but he’s still not over the cruelty of Eleanor’s reminder that Allie’s mother is dead and she has to grow up without ever knowing Charlie.

Coupled with the continued use of Valentine instead of Allie, those old wounds feel split open and septic, like corpses being goosed with riverside branches. Emmanuel’s the branch-wielding kid with too much time and not enough supervision, poking at the bloat and the rot until it ruptures.

“Stop calling her that,” Dean demands, but the soft wavering of his voice makes the instruction weak and pleading, makes him sound like he’s begging.

“It’s her name,” Emmanuel says needlessly, as if Dean doesn’t fucking know that. “If you disliked the name her mother gave her, perhaps you should have changed it once the adoption was finalized and you had the option.”

Plenty of responses find their way to the tip of Dean’s tongue, but are barred in by the cage of his tightly clenched teeth. Emmanuel knows damn well that has nothing to do with it, that Dean wouldn’t dream of changing the name Charlie picked out for her first and only child.

Instead, Dean redirects the conversation toward its intended purpose, to the reason why Emmanuel is here instead of Jimmy and why Eleanor is dragging her ass across town for the second time in two days. It’s practically a goddamn record.

“Why – what do you have against the documentary, Manny?”

The alter sips on his orange juice before shifting his weight, keeping his bespectacled eyes focused on the glass. “It’s not a good idea. Nothing positive will come of it.”

“I don’t believe that,” Dean says, trying to make his voice as calm and persuasive as possible. “I think this could be good for Jimmy. I think this could be good for our family.”

Emmanuel just shakes his head, unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re not doing it because it could be good for _you_? For _your_ career?”

“My job is just fine, you dick. I’m doing this because it’s bullshit that there’s nothing out there Jimmy. There’s no lifeline. The more people know about it, the more options he might have in the future. I want to grow old with him, and I want him to be okay,” Dean shuts himself up before his speech carries on for too long. He hadn’t spoken the words out loud before despite thinking about them endlessly, and hearing them makes him more emotional than he wants to be right now.

“You want Jimmy to be okay, and yet you’re putting him at such great risk. You haven’t considered that the documentary could make him worse.”

“I _have_ considered it,” Dean confesses, and he has a rare, vulnerable moment in which he wants to bare a little more of himself to the alter, to really discuss the possible consequences in a civilized, meaningful way rather than the childish bickering they so often settle on. “But there are risks if I don’t do the documentary, too. Allie’s gonna grow up hearing all kinds of things, and Jimmy barely gets the help he needs as it is. This could change things for him.”

Emmanuel considers that for a moment, finishing the rest of his juice and setting the glass in the sink. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the counter, a bothersome habit of his that Dean’s learned to tune out, then says, “Yes. It could.”

Except Dean’s not sure if Emmanuel just agreed with him or solidified his own point.

“I love him,” Dean tries, filling in the silence that followed the alter’s minimal response, “and I wouldn’t hurt him. Christ, don’t you know that by now?”

Emmanuel doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t react to Dean’s obvious attempt at picking another needless fight. He leans back against the counter, mirroring Dean’s relaxed position, and folds his arms.

“Tell me about the documentary.”

“What?”

Emmanuel sighs and plucks at a loose thread on the sweater. “Tell me about it,” he repeats, tone mild and completely unthreatening. “What do you plan to include? What exactly are you…documenting?”

“Oh. Uh.” Dean wasn’t expecting that question, didn’t think any of the alters would take it seriously enough to ask about it.

Dean’s put a lot of thought into his idea, not just because he sees the world through photographer’s eyes, but because the end result will have a direct impact on the way people perceive his husband, on the way their daughter will grow up and perceive the world.

More than that, he wants to make his family proud. Wants Jimmy to look at him with a quiet reverence like he did when they were younger, back when they both believed Dean would be enough to keep him safe from the world and from himself.

“I, uh, want to take a journalistic approach, I guess,” Dean explains, but realizes Emmanuel wouldn’t really know what that means.

He doesn’t get a chance to explain further. The doorbell rings and Emmanuel smiles and that’s the end of the deepest, sincerest conversation the two of them have ever had.

☼     ☼     ☼ 

“This tea is delightful,” Eleanor croons, smiling and fluttering her lashes in a display that’s bordering on repulsive.

In a stark contrast from yesterday, Dean’s mother-in-law is wearing a comfortable pair of pajama-type clothing with her hair down. He’s really not sure what to call whatever she’s wearing because he’s not a chick and only knows the basics from shopping in the girl’s section for Allie, but her pants are pink and kind of look like velvet. They’re probably fancy, but they look tacky and he half expects to see JUICY written across her ass.

It’s a thought that rises vomit to back of his throat that he’s gotta swallow back down before anyone else notices.

“Oh, thank you,” Emmanuel chirps in reply. Dean has to admit that the alter is totally in his element right now, completely and unreservedly content. “It’s a new recipe. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve added honey.”

“It’s wonderful, truly,” she insists, giving Emmanuel’s arm a gentle squeeze to reinforce her statement.

Dean didn’t realize he could feel so uncomfortable over a conversation about beverages. He didn’t even know that tea could be made in more than one way or that it’s something in need of a recipe.

After a few more minutes of aimless banter between the alter and Eleanor with Dean sitting silently and a bit sulky for most it, Emmanuel finally moves the topic along and the mood around them changes considerably. Too bad, because that conversation about bees and farming and pesticides was getting _really_ fascinating.

Eleanor sets her empty cup on the table before turning her focus to Dean, the warmth bleeding from her face until she’s back to being that cold, heartless bitch. “I hear you plan to exploit my son’s condition for a profit.”

Dean’s not sure if it’s possible to convey exactly how irritated he is right now, but he trusts his middle finger to do the job anyway.

“Classy,” is all she says, turning to her pseudo-son for more of that pseudo-bonding she seems to get off on so much. “What do you think of all this?”

Emmanuel shrugs, doing his best to appear neutral and level-headed. Eleanor’s never been a fan of displaying emotion, so Emmanuel strives to not only meet that absurd standard but exceed it as well – when she’s around, at least. “I don’t like it.”

How shocking.

“Neither do I,” she agrees, and Dean thinks his heart might explode with all the outrageous revelations happening today.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says, because apparently they both need the reminder that they don’t run the show here, “free country and all that. And if you think for a second that either of you are innocent of what you’re accusing me of, maybe you should check your bank account. How many copies did your psych friend sell of his book, huh? How much did you get out of that deal?”

Eleanor narrows her eyes and pinches her lips, cheeks turning red in embarrassment. “It was a psychological study based on years of therapy and research. Everything I earned from that agreement was saved so that Jimmy could go to college.”

“Funny. I don’t remember Jimmy going to college. I remember the both of us getting kicked out and forced to live on our own.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have gotten married while in high school,” Eleanor says, actually smiling and chuckling at the memory. Yeah, he and Jimmy didn’t think that one through as well as they should have. “But look, you’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you? You take pictures of pretty girls and Jimmy’s got a book out there of his own.”

As much as Dean wishes his job description included looking at pretty girls all day, the truth is that the majority of his subjects are actually kids and _girls_ were never really his thing.

“We did alright,” Dean concedes, stopping himself from boasting. They didn’t just do alright, they did fucking awesome.

“I wish you’d tell me Jimmy’s pen name,” she adds, trailing a finger over the handle of the cup. “I’d love to read his novel.”

“I wish you wouldn’t threaten my family, Eleanor,” and Dean can’t help but add, “Because I know you’re full of shit.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Emmanuel hisses, no doubt hysterical about the language he used in front of a lady.

Dean shifts in his chair, leaning forward as he pops his knuckles. “Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that, didn’t I? Mother dearest here threatened to call CPS so we’d lose Allie. She doesn’t think Jimmy and I are fit to be parents.” Dean watches as that information sinks into Emmanuel’s brain, waits for the twitch in the alter’s cheek to signal just how secretly furious he is. He turns back to Eleanor then, smug at the way her pinched lips have puckered.

Beside him, Emmanuel squirms in his seat as he clenches and unclenches his fists, looking more appalled and intimidating than Dean thinks he’s ever seen him. He can really only think of one other time that Emmanuel had looked so… _disgusted_ , but that’s a time Dean refuses to think about.

He knew the alter would be upset; Emmanuel loves Allie so much that it’s his only redeeming factor.

“You what?” The alter gasps, and yes, that’s the reaction Dean was hoping for.

“Don’t worry, Manny. Sammy’s a lawyer, remember? She’s all bark and no bite. Can’t do shit,” Dean offers, grinning now because he’s pretty sure he’s got the alter on his side.

“You never let me see Valentine! You tell me nothing and give me nothing. My son is a published author and yet you won’t even tell me what name he writes under. _My_ son. You –”

“Mother, please,” Emmanuel interrupts with a darkened voice, shaking his head. “When Jimmy decides to tell you about his novel, he’ll tell you. And perhaps you would get to see Valentine more if you weren’t quite so rude to Dean all the time. Jimmy is very much influenced by what Dean says,” whatever the fuck _that_ means, “so if Dean is upset with you, you won’t be allowed over. I had hoped you could be on my side today, but it seems our interests are not mutual.”

Tightly, as if trying to stand while keeping the stick up his ass, Emmanuel rises from his chair and glides gracefully out of the kitchen, leaving Dean and Eleanor at the table with their mouths slightly open and at least one of them more impressed than they were five minutes ago.

Eleanor combs an awkward hand through her hair before speaking. Dean doesn’t bother rushing her; he likes watching her squirm. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” she repeats, but the second time she says it, Dean’s pretty sure there’s a hint of tears in her voice. “You win. Just tell me what I need to do.”

That – well, that was easy. He’s not even sure how well he trusts the victory with her conceding so quickly. “Be in the documentary.”

Her eyes bulge in a way that should be comical, but really isn’t. “No.”

“Yes,” Dean insists, and he does so because he can practically see her weakening walls as little pieces of it crumble to dust on the ground. “You want to see Allie more? This is how you do it. Agree to be in the documentary, sign some papers, and let me interview you.”

She ponders that for a moment, though Dean can’t tell which way the scales are tipping her mind. “What exactly do I have to do?”

“Like I said: sign some media release forms and let me interview you. Might want to record you sometimes too…you know, when you’re hanging out with Allie or Jimmy or whatever,” Dean adds, trying to sweeten the deal enough to get her to agree. He really shouldn’t doubt his selling skills, though, because Eleanor wouldn’t be here and wouldn’t be entertaining the idea at all unless she already planned on saying yes.

Eleanor plucks her purse from the table and threads her arm through the straps. She looks away for a moment at nothing Dean can pinpoint, then rises from the table just as gracefully as Emmanuel had. _Must be a family thing_ , he thinks, before he remembers that Jimmy’s adopted.

“Walk me to the door,” she instructs, and Dean finds he doesn’t mind obeying the command.

He leads her into the entryway, feeling a little silly now for being so underdressed because it’s fucking cold as hell and their entry isn’t heated, but he ignores the sharp bite of air in favor of opening the door to shoo Eleanor out like a stray cat.

Eleanor pauses, licking her lips over the gloss painted on them, and Dean wonders why she doesn’t grimace at the taste. “Thank you for taking care of my son,” she says, almost whispering. “Anna told me you saved him from the bridge.”

“Yeah,” he says, admittedly shocked that he’s actually hearing those words come from her mouth.

“I don’t thank you as much as I should,” she continues, “not many people would put up with my son and his condition, but you do seem to love him very much.”

“Seem to?” Dean chuckles, because at this point there really shouldn’t be any doubt.

“I’ll be in your documentary, Dean, but I want more than the occasional play date at the park. I want sleepovers and invitations to her recitals. I want to take her out for a milkshake after school.”

Dean tries his hardest to hate her through her commands, tries to maintain his unsympathetic expression as she details all the ways she wants to spend time with Allie, but it turns out their history doesn’t matter so much when those images flit through his head. He wants those things for his daughter just as much as Eleanor does, wants his little girl to be close to her grandmother and make those memories before it’s too late.

“Okay,” he says, trying not to reveal how much his heart has melted, “you can pick her up from Anna’s tomorrow, and spend some time with her before bringing her back. I’ll have the release forms ready for you to sign then.”

Eleanor smiles. “I’ll bring her around by dinner time.”

When Dean finally shuts the door behind her, his toes are cold and his skin prickles with goosebumps. He leaves the door from the kitchen to the entryway open so the heat can defrost the stained window on the front door, can melt some of the snow tracked in from their guests.

He’s not sure where Emmanuel took off to, and he’s not even sure if he cares enough to find him. Dean still burns with the bitterness from being denied an evening with his husband, still finds himself wishing he could make them a romantic dinner and have a romantic evening, followed by a very romantic romp between the sheets. Emmanuel is such an annoying cock-block, but at least he’s as irritated and pissed off about Eleanor’s threat as Dean is.

On the bright side, Dean has the very narrow opportunity to slink into the study and check out whatever Jimmy’s been writing for his second novel. Yeah, Dean might know his husband’s pseudonym, but that doesn’t mean Jimmy ever lets Dean read over his shoulder. Maybe it’s wrong to look while Jimmy’s not around, but it’s not like Dean’s going to make fun of him. He loves the guy, dammit, and that includes everything that comes out of his sometimes highly-embarrassed mind.

As he creeps down the hall into the study, Dean can hear Emmanuel’s footsteps upstairs in their bedroom. He’s probably dressing down already, taking off that ridiculously sexy sweater or cleaning his glasses or something. Dean doesn’t really know how Emmanuel spends all of his time other than hating gays and telling Dean all about it.

The laptop is open, screen black with rest, which is a little surprising. He wonders when Jimmy had the time today to open his computer and get any writing done.

Dean swipes the pad with a single finger and brings the screen back to life, further surprised by the fact that whatever Jimmy is writing is open and the first thing he sees. Jimmy’s so secretive about his work that it almost feels a little suspicious to have it left open so carelessly. Of course, his husband can’t control when he transitions, so that might have had something to do with it.

He reads from the top of the page even though it starts mid-sentence.

_had fallen from the sky like snow, pale and glittering with the smattering of freckles dusted along the bridge of her nose with the same care flour finds itself settling on the bottom of a greased pan. Sometimes she reflects her father so squarely that it’s a wonder she’s not truly his own, that the earth colored eyes and cupid-kissed lips are merely a twist of fate and not the product of biology. Perhaps there is evidence of God’s Intelligent Design after all. Surely two perfect creatures could not exist, could not have found each other through pure happenstance without the gentle persuasiveness of a holy hand. This is the meaning of salvation. I’ve forfeited the need to know whether their parallels are evidence of infidelity or simply coincidence. The questionable circumstances of her conception and paternity mean nothing in the face of such pure, deific love._

It doesn’t take long for Dean to realize the feeling growing in the pit of his stomach is guilt, is some sickening twist of sadness and blame because his husband has just accused him of the unthinkable.

Sure, if Dean scrolled up on the document, he’s certain the girl’s name would be unknown to him as any fictional name, and the story would be distant and unrecognizable as any author could do, but the accusation is there. Again.

Jimmy must think Allie is biologically Dean’s, must think he and Charlie fooled around and pretended like Charlie didn’t know the father. Does Jimmy believe that Charlie left her daughter to them in her quickly scrawled will because Dean would want custody of his own progeny?

As much as Dean does for his husband, despite all of the sacrifices and hardships he goes through to keep Jimmy happy and alive and safe, Jimmy continues to look for a fault in their marriage in an attempt to devalue himself and what they have.

Maybe it’s a good thing Emmanuel’s here after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took forever to update, and sorry the chapter is half the length of the others. I am super duper struggling with writing right now, for a million reasons, but I'm hoping that I can get back on track by writing smaller amounts at a time rather than enormous ten-thousand word chapters. This also was not beta'd so please forgive the mistakes. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who sent me well wishes and for questions about the fic. I'm truly sorry that I went from posting chapters once a week to once every few months. The encouragement has been amazing.

“You ready?” Dean asks, making final adjustments on the camera. He wants to make sure the frame is right so he doesn’t have to do this again. 

Anna fidgets a little in the chair but nods, smoothing down her hair and tucking a loose strand behind her ear. The blush on her cheeks looks unnatural, painted there to enhance her on-screen appearance, and her eyes are wide and wet with the promise of tears to come. 

“Nervous?” Dean checks, because he’s not trying to embarrass her. He knows all that raw emotion would be good for the documentary, but Anna has enough Eleanor in her that exposing herself like that to world would be unbearable. 

He can’t pretend like it wouldn’t bother him, either. 

She shakes her head but fidgets as she does so. Even if Dean didn’t grow up with her, the lie would still be obvious. 

He gives her another minute to compose herself, waiting patiently by thumbing through the pages of questions he wrote and printed out the night before. With a little frustration, Dean tries to smooth out the creases by rubbing the papers against his thigh. He doesn’t hear the first of Anna’s gasps through the crinkly noise, but he hears the second when he sets the stack down on the table beside him.

“Turn it off,” she says, covering her eyes and curling in on herself. “Turn it off.”

“It’s not on,” Dean promises, confused. He didn’t expect the tears to come before they even got started. “What’s wrong?”

Anna says nothing, trying to keep herself composed. Dean’s torn between comforting her and stalling awkwardly until the crying stops. He opts for the latter, tapping his fingers restlessly against his knee and watching the wind carry through the leaves in the trees. An awful feeling goes through him as he sits there unhelpfully, but he doesn’t want to smudge the line that Anna already tries to cross. 

“I don’t get it,” she finally admits, wiping at her eyes. Surprisingly, her makeup soldiers on and remains un-smeared. “You and Jimmy. I don’t get this. I don’t get the documentary.”

“I can explain it again, if that would help.” Dean knows it won’t. The arguments he makes in favor of his marriage usually go in one ear and out the other. 

Anna shakes her head. “You know what Allie asked me last night?”

His stomach plummets like a lead balloon. “What?”

“She asked me why she doesn’t have a mommy, and why Jimmy acts like other people all the time. This isn’t – this is wrong, Dean. It’s one thing if you choose this freak show for yourself, but Allie deserves better. And now you’re – God, Dean, when people say their lives could be turned into a movie, you know they’re just joking, right? They don’t actually make a fucking movie.”

His fingers stop tapping, and for the briefest of moments the gears in his head stop turning. 

Then his body comes back to him a jolt, and he has to resist the urge not to kick over his camera and destroy thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. 

“Allie’s just fine, okay? If you don’t want to do the documentary, I’m not gonna force you. You can kindly fuck off any time you feel like it.” Dean’s so tired of hearing this, of having the same stupid argument every day of his miserable life. 

He might as well make a tape recording of himself to replay whenever someone else walks into the room. 

Anna gets her tears under control, but she remains undeterred. She rises from her spot in the cushy wingback chair and stands, crossing her arms and locking eyes with Dean. “I love you,” she breathes. 

Dean just rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Anna.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“So why…” Anna takes a deep breath and step closer, the rose tint in her cheeks more natural now as her blood heats beneath the skin. “Jimmy needs more help than you can give him. I can be good to you, Dean. We could be happy.”

And Jimmy’s supposed to be the crazy one. 

He watches Anna stand before him, trembling, fingers white as they clench tightly in anxious fists. She sincerely means every word of it, every traitorous, dreadful thought in her head about them running away and living happily ever after. 

Dean doesn’t know much about Anna’s life before Eleanor adopted her, doesn’t know if she was abused or neglected, but it’s either that or Jimmy wasn’t the only one effected by their mother’s unique style of parenting. 

“Do you have a dick, Anna?”

“What?”

“A dick,” Dean repeats, leaning forward on his elbows. “Or a cock. Whatever you want to call it.”

Anna scowls. “You know I don’t.”

“So in the life you imagine for us, are we just platonic marriage buddies, or what? You bake apple pies in the kitchen with a floral apron tied around your waist, and I jerk off to gay porn after you fall asleep?”

“Stop it,” she hisses. The scowl on her face devolves into something fouler, more humiliated. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” Dean presses, growing impatient. 

Anna takes another step forward, but the disgusted look on Dean’s face keeps her from coming any closer. 

“You’re not gay, Dean. You love Jimmy, but that doesn’t mean you could never love a woman. I remember the way you used to look at Charlie, even after you got married.”

Jimmy’s novel springs to mind, along with the ugly images painted with such beautiful, heartfelt words. He thinks of Jimmy wrapping himself tightly with a blanket as he waits for hours on end, wondering, worried about Dean and Charlie when they wouldn’t answer their phones the night Allie was conceived. 

He gives Anna a final, furious look, angry at himself but angrier at her for bringing up that unwanted memory and poking at the unhealed wounds of Charlie’s death. 

Dean’s got nothing to say to that, nothing to add to Anna’s relentless pilgrimage into his personal life, so he leaves the room with his mouth closed and his ears turned off. Anna’s trying to talk to him, trying to turn him around and get him to listen, but Dean’s having none of it. She’s a kitten batting against a lion for all the luck she’s having, but he still wishes he could slam the door in her face or revoke her Allie privileges. He wants to hurt her but knows he couldn’t actually go through with it. 

He wants Jimmy right now. Jimmy will make everything better.

But luck isn’t something Dean was born with, so it comes as no surprise that Emmanuel is still around and reading quietly through the newspaper in the living room. 

The only mercy is that the house is clean; it smells fresh and fruity like lemons and oranges, and even the windows are sparkling and smudge free. Dean pauses, staring through the sliding glass door that leads out to the backyard, a little disappointed that he can’t see Allie’s greasy palm-prints. He likes the reminder that his house is a home. 

“Dean,” Anna says again, still trailing behind him, one hand tugging on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Emmanuel folds the paper neatly and drops it onto the couch, smiling up at Anna even though she’s clearly distressed. 

Dean has the urge to shake him, to beg Jimmy to come back and send Emmanuel far away. 

“Hello Anna,” Emmanuel says, and the sound of his voice startles her as though she didn’t even notice he was there. 

“Oh,” she smiles, obviously fake. “Hey Manny.”

“What are you two doing?” Emmanuel asks. Dean rakes his eyes over the alter’s clothes, annoyed by the pleated pants and the soft blue sweater-vest. God, Dean wants to punch him. He just might. 

“Anna here was just suggesting that I might not be gay,” Dean announces, feeling like starting a fight. “So good news for you, I guess.”

Emmanuel tilts his head and narrows his eyes, half of his mouth quirking up in a humored smirk. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

But the changing look on Emmanuel’s face says something else, something darker, like a silent accusation that Dean can’t quite figure out. 

Anna’s face is rightfully shamed, downturned and red. She stands there awkwardly and stares at the floor, waiting for either of them to say something or scold her. But even now, despite the allegation against him, he can’t bring himself to do more than throw back some petty, passive-aggressive bullshit. 

He doesn’t get it, and maybe he never will. It just doesn’t make sense. There’s no point to being with Jimmy if not for love, if not for that deep sense of need and loyalty that blooms fast and brightly when Jimmy smiles in his direction. Dean isn’t even afraid to admit how cheesy that is, for fuck’s sake. It’s like no one in his life has ever listened to the words said during marriage vows. 

But the jab about Charlie – that gross, spiteful suggestion that Dean wanted her as more than a friend – isn’t something he’ll ever just forgive and forget. It’s been a point of contention between him and his husband for so long that they’ve both learned to simply not discuss it for the sake of their marriage. 

Anna knows that. She’s not afraid to use Dean’s dead friend as a weapon against him. 

Even Emmanuel is watching them both with an air of curiosity as though he’s waiting for Dean to explain himself, like he really owes either of them an explanation. Like he really has to prove how fucking gay he is. 

“It would be, wouldn’t it?” Dean says, a mockery of a smile on his face. “You’d be happier, yeah? Who cares about Jimmy, right?”

He feels a little impish as he says it, a bit dumb and juvenile because the words come out like elementary tiffs on a playground. 

Anna has the decency to look wounded, at least. 

“I don’t approve of your lifestyle, Dean. You know that.” Emmanuel crosses his legs, exposing several inches of a white sock from under the hem of his pleated pants. For God’s sake, he looks like Mister Rogers. 

And that does it. The damn sock. Dean doesn’t even know why that’s the final straw, why the sight of the typical undergarment suddenly has him roiling and teetering on the edge of violence. He can only handle so much, can only take so many punches to the gut before he starts striking back. Jimmy’s not here to calm him down and bring him back to Earth. There’s only Anna, who seems to enjoy snipping the strings that anchor him.

And Emmanuel; a man who belongs in the neighborhood of Make Believe beside Prince Tuesday, not here in Jimmy’s body and Jimmy’s life. 

Dean acts on impulse, grabbing the remote from the coffee table and turning on the television. 

He doesn’t watch a lot of TV, so it takes him a few minutes to navigate through the options before he settles on making a one-time purchase for several hours of obnoxious gay porn. Anna kept asking him what he was doing, pestering him impatiently and nudging his shoulder, but Dean ignored her and focused all of his attention on the screen. 

Once the moaning started, Anna gasped. Emmanuel’s jaw dropped comically low. 

“Stop it,” Emmanuel commanded, slapping a hand down angrily against the folded newspaper. “You’ve made your point. Enough.”

“It’s my house, Manny,” Dean smiles, taking a few steps back until he drops down onto the couch. He stretches out and splays his knees, then turns up the volume. 

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Anna whines as she follows him over to the couch. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll do the interview. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Yeah, he doesn’t doubt that for a second. 

In response, he simply turns up the volume again and keeps his eyes trained on the screen. He doesn’t look her. 

“Dean!” She shouts, an even darker shade of red than he thought possible. 

Emmanuel swiftly rises from the couch, knocking the newspaper to the floor as he nearly runs into the kitchen for respite. It’s almost funny how flustered the alter gets at the mere mention of sexual intercourse, so the guy’s brain must be gurgling and melting with every loudly echoed moan and slap of skin he’s forced to hear. 

Beside him, Anna starts to sob. He thought she was crying pretty seriously before, but the fat tears rolling down her cheeks are relentless now as her breath hitches, her chest jumping in a stuttering rhythm. Dean would feel bad for her if he wasn’t already so furious with her, so betrayed on Jimmy’s behalf. 

“Please, d-don’t hate me,” she manages through the noisy gasps, sounding small and helpless. 

Dean looks at her then, unable to resist. He wants to feel sorry for her, wants to help her in some way, but she’s simply pushed this too far. Anna’s crossed many lines, but her confession was too much. They can’t come back from this, he thinks. 

And maybe it’s his fault too for letting her get away with so much. Maybe Dean shouldn’t have felt so guilty over her feelings, the ones she could never truly hide anyway. He thought her crush would have died out in high school, would have run its course and fizzled out when someone new and shiny came along. 

But Anna, like Jimmy, can be very stubborn. 

Dean doesn’t hate her, but he can’t forgive her. 

Emmanuel storms back into the room, surprisingly formidable for a man in a sweater-vest. Their faces must be mirrored for how angry the alter looks, how violated and debased. Dean’s temporarily distracted by the thought that he and Manny finally have something in common, but then water is sprayed in his face and he’s fucking blinded by the torrent of bottled rain in his eyes. 

“What the fuck!” Dean spits, leaning forward and wiping his face. He’s being sprayed continuously, the ragged sound of the spray bottle’s plastic groaning with every spurt. Dean’s able to dodge the next few hits and clear his face, blinking a couple times to clear his vision. 

Emmanuel has a Windex bottle – one he must have emptied and filled with tap water – but there’s also a rosary inside of it, floating around and tapping against the clear plastic sides. 

Dean has all of two seconds to process that before he’s sprayed again, this time in the chest. 

Emmanuel starts talking. “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God –”

“Are you – no, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Dean spits plucking at the damp spot on his shirt. “An exorcism, Manny?”

The alter doesn’t stop. He drenches through Dean’s shirt with the holy water, chanting, “By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign of your name, and the day and hour of your departure –”

“Knock it off!”

“Stoop beneath the all-powerful Hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and terrible Name of Jesus!”

“Manny!” Dean can hardly see through the water as it falls over his eyes and down his face, his shirt sticking to his skin and dripping down over the carpet. He feels the thread of tension snap inside his chest and then he’s shoving, arms thrusting outward without the ability to see. 

The heels of his hands collide against Emmanuel’s collar bones and the alter is pushed back, losing his balance and falling backward onto his ass. 

It’s finally quiet. 

Dean claws at his face for a second, too angry and uncoordinated to manage more than that despite trying to clear the water from his face. He hears someone coming toward him, probably Anna, so he twists his body away from her and goes into the kitchen to catch his breath. 

“Hey,” Anna says, her voice rough with worry. 

“Fuck off,” is all Dean has the presence of mind to say. He doesn’t think about her or Emmanuel when he grabs the keys from the counter and slips on his shoes. 

“Wait!” She tries again, but Dean’s about ready to shove her to the ground next and he knows he’s got to get out of here before he does anything else he’ll regret. 

He slams the door in her face as he leaves, practically stomping to the car before getting in and taking off. 

There’s a throbbing ache inside where it hurts him to leave the alter home alone, that tells him to stay and just take a few deep breaths, but Dean’s feeling selfish and petulant enough to turn up the music and keep going. Anna’s there, and though he doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, she’ll probably at least be willing to make sure the alter – and Jimmy – are safe enough before she goes home. 

This is what everyone else does, anyway. They run when things get hard; they disconnect from all the ties that keep them wound up in the family drama and fly free until they’re ready to come back. As he rolls the window down and lets the cool air whip around his face, he can’t blame them. He’d probably do it more often too if he wasn’t the one trying to keep them all tied together. 

There’s a sickness swelling in the pit of his gut as he thinks of Allie, but she’s still at school and Eleanor’s supposed to be picking her up today. He knows he can’t be gone too long, but he’s at least got a couple of hours to wind down and return to himself before he goes home. 

But he’s faced with the unfamiliar problem of not knowing where to go, where to be. Jimmy’s always been his True North and he’s not used to his compass spinning aimlessly in circles. 

It’s not surprising when he finds himself pulling up to his parents’ house. 

His mom’s car is in the driveway, but he can’t tell if his dad is home too. He parks and knocks on the door even though he knows that the door is never closed on family. 

Mary answers. “Oh, Dean. Come on in.” She steps aside and swings the door wide, her face welcoming but confused. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean lies, but then he remembers that he didn’t bother changing his clothes before he left in a hurry. The sticky feeling of wet cotton comes back and he’s uncomfortable again in more ways than one. “Mind if I use your dryer?”

She shrugs and closes the door once he’s inside. 

Dean strips and adds his clothes to the load Mary’s putting in the dryer, then raids his dad’s closet for an old t-shirt and a pair of sweats. They’re a little baggy in the areas his father has put on weight over the years, but they still fit well enough that it’s comforting rather than awkward. 

He’s glad to be with his mom, though. The heated boil in his veins is simmering down to a bubbly swamp and his head is clear enough that he starts feeling like shit. 

Mary puts on a pot of coffee. Dean watches from where he sits wordlessly at the kitchen island, noting that the cabinets have been refinished and the fridge looks new. It’s about damn time, since the last time this place was fixed up was probably twenty years ago. It makes him wonder when he was here last, and guilt floods him anew. It’s been months, probably. Maybe longer. 

The house isn’t as big as Dean’s, but it’s still a nice place in a sweet neighborhood by the good schools that parents want their children going to. They did well on one income, quite frankly, and turned down all of Dean’s offers to buy them a bigger place. 

Jimmy’s novel did really well, okay?

But it’s a shame that money can’t buy common sense, otherwise Dean wouldn’t be here with the expectation that his mother would leave him alone and not pry into his life with that maternal crowbar of hers. 

She sets a cup of coffee in front of him, no cream with three packets of sugar. At least she knows him well. 

“What happened?” She asks, very matter-of-factly. He shrugs, trying to avoid her penetrative stare. “You fall into the river or something?”

Dean starts to laugh, but then remembers that he actually almost did fall into the river not that long ago when Cas went on some kind of angelic bender. “Nah. Got exorcised though. Demon free,” he smiles, then takes a sip. 

“What?” She smiles too, not afraid to poke fun at the life her oldest son lives. “By the religious one?”

Dean ignores the fact that his mother refuses to call the alters by their names. “Yeah, Manny had a real stick up his ass today.”

Mary starts to roll her eyes but stops herself, then simply hums in agreement. She’s never made a secret of her feelings toward Jimmy and his condition, and John’s not here to take Dean’s side, so he just lets it go. He’s had enough fighting for today. “

Echo strolls in, his dark nails scraping against the wood floor as he grumbles and sniffs around Dean’s feet, clearly unimpressed. The fat beagle plops down and makes quick work of licking Dean’s toes. It tickles. 

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, trying to hide his bare feet from the onslaught of drool and saliva. He’s been wet enough today, thank you. 

“He misses you,” Mary says, giving him another motherly look that makes him feel inadequate in some way. “You never come around anymore.”

“Sorry mom,” Dean mumbles, and he means it. He knew it was going to mean a different lifestyle when Jimmy went off his meds, but he’d forgotten how much of his time and energy went into keeping his husband safe, into watching the alters and their habits so that nothing bad would happen to them. It meant raising Allie almost as if he were a single father, a task he’d never be able to do if it weren’t for the massive amount of help he gets from his family. 

Dean blows on the top of his drink to help it cool faster. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, baby.” Mary’s voice softens and she leans over the island to get closer. 

He takes a minute to try and compose his thoughts, only to embarrass himself by realizing that there’s no way to explain the situation between him and Anna without exposing her. 

But, God, Dean really wishes he could get some advice. He doesn’t know what to do anymore, not now that the weird thing between him and his sister-in-law has spiraled out of control. Dean thought he could handle it himself, thought that if he was firm enough on the line he drew between them that she would respect it. 

Except she doesn’t, and probably never has. 

If Jimmy knew, he would freak out. He would feel hurt and betrayed. Jimmy’s not able to handle his emotions like the rest of the world, he can’t just deal with things as they come and get past them. Dean’s afraid of what would happen if Jimmy lost control like that, backstabbed by the only sibling he still has contact with, the one he trusts. 

Telling just one other person might be able to help Dean work through it, might give him some insight, but the truth is that he’s learned not to trust people so freely. If you tell one person your secret, then the whole fucking world knows by the next day. 

It’s only safe so long as he keeps it pinned to the inside of his wrist for safe keeping, just beneath the heart on his sleeve. 

“Never mind,” he says, feeling defeated. 

Mary doesn’t push the issue, but she lingers for a moment while she mulls over her thoughts. She places a gentle, reassuring hand on Dean’s and says, “You know you can stay here any time you need. You and Allie are safe here no matter what.”

He tries to keep the anger at a simmer when he says, “Yup.”

“Whenever you need a break from…all that. You don’t even have to ask, just come on over.”

Whether by divine intervention or simply mercy, Dean’s cellphone rings before he can reply. He excuses himself, glad for the interruption but pissed off that there’s apparently no place for him to go where his husband is safe from judgment. 

Some days it feels like his father is the only one not out to knock him and Jimmy down. 

Dean finds himself in his old bedroom when he answers. “Yeah?”

“Dean,” it’s Anna, sounding relieved. His heart rate picks up with the worry that something happened to Jimmy, but she follows with, “everything’s okay, I just – where are you?”

He sits down on the end of his bed, staring ahead at the Metallica poster on the wall. “What do you need?”

“Are you okay?” She pushes, ignorant. He’s back to feeling just like he was in his living room before he stormed out; tense, and toppling over the edge. 

“I’m fine,” he says, keeping it short. “Did you need something?”

“I don’t feel like I’ve apologized enough,” Anna explains, voice dropping to almost a whisper. 

Dean notes the faint rip in the top corner of the poster, then drops back onto his bed, head landing perfectly on his old pillow. Above him, another poster greets view and he’s swept by a sense of nostalgia. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Dean says, staring unblinking at the brightly colored rainbow he now realizes are stairs. “Honestly, I don’t really want to hear it.”

It’s silent for a moment on the phone, quiet enough that he can hear the low groan of someone walking on the floorboards nearby. His mother, probably, coming to listen to Dean’s conversation. 

He pays the sounds on the other side of his bedroom door no mind, and waits for Anna to continue. 

After a long breath, she says, “Good, because I’m not sorry. I love you.”

A ridiculous notion, that, but he doesn’t bother contesting it. It doesn’t really matter enough to argue the point, because Dean’s with Jimmy and that’s the only scenario that will ever play out. 

“I don’t want you to come over anymore,” Dean answers as softly as he can. He doesn’t want to hurt Anna, but it’s time. It needs to be said. 

“What?”

“To the house. I don’t think we should be around each other anymore. You can still see Allie at your place, but you’re not welcome in my home.”

Silence again, this time longer. The soft creaking just outside Dean’s door fades. 

“What if Jimmy invites me over?” She challenges, but the whine in her voice gives her away. 

“Then you better let me know you’re coming over so I can leave. I’m serious, Anna, and if you say you love me again, I will tell Jimmy everything. I don’t think he’ll be as gracious as I am.” 

He feels awful saying it, almost as if it’s a lie. He’s willing to follow through with the threat, willing to tell Jimmy all about his sister’s poorly harbored crush, but he really, really doesn’t want to. 

There’s a good chance Dean will change his mind, too. But he hopes it’s enough to keep Anna at a distance, at least for now. 

“You’re an asshole, Winchester,” She says, and it doesn’t bother him as much as it should. “Don’t forget that you’re not the only one with secrets to share, either.”

The conversation ends with a loud click, and all Dean can feel is relief. 

He’s said it and the worst is over. He drew another line in the sand and hopefully she’ll know better than to cross this one. 

It could be the nostalgia and the comfort of his room talking, but Dean doesn’t even care about the threat she made or what the hell she was even talking about. Dean might be an asshole but he’s sure as shit not a cheater or a lying scumbag. Anna’s got nothing as she knows it. 

There are no sounds coming from the hallway now, just the slightest hum from a distant TV he thinks might be on in the living room, or maybe his parents’ bedroom. 

Dean’s heart rate picks up unexpectedly, thundering in his chest and pulsing in his ears. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, maybe nothing, but suddenly it’s a little hard to breathe let alone concentrate on the poster on his ceiling, no matter how bright and awesome it is. 

He feels safer here in his childhood room than he does anywhere else, so he repeats that over and over in his head until his breathing evens out. 

Jimmy is okay. Emmanuel is probably still being an annoying bitch at home. Anna might still be there. She wouldn’t abandon her own brother. Would she?

Well, she’d stab him in the back and then fuck his husband. 

Dean’s gotta get home and end his sulk fest. 

His head hurts and spins from standing too fast, so he stop himself and lean on his nightstand for a moment before he falls over. His heart is being stubborn, won’t slow down no matter how much he wants it to, but it doesn’t fight him when he kisses his mother goodbye and offers an empty promise to come back soon. 

҉ ҉ ҉

“Jimmy?”

Christ, it’s really him. Dean wasn’t expecting to see his husband when he got home, just the cruel parody of one of his alters. He opened the door thinking Emmanuel would be the one to coolly greet him with an icy stare and a spray bottle of holy water still handy. 

Jimmy sits there at the dining table with his head in his hands, dressed in a trademark t-shirt and faded jeans, no shoes. His hair is mussed, his eyes wet. Dean almost wants to laugh at how many tears have been shed today. 

Dean circles the table quickly and pulls up a chair to sit beside him, draping his arms over Jimmy’s shoulders without hesitation. “I missed you,” he says into his husband’s shoulder. 

“Everyone was gone,” Jimmy says, accepting the affection. “I woke up on the couch and no one was here. Couldn’t find my phone.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean assures him, then kisses him softly on the cheek. He pulls on Jimmy’s arms until they’re both standing, then says, “Follow me,” and drags his husband out of the dining room. 

Jimmy follows, resisting only slightly. He’s slow behind Dean but letting himself be directed up the stairs. Dean’s heart keeps its ridiculous pace until they’re in the bedroom with the door closed behind them. 

He looks at the clock. Only two hours before Allie’s due home. 

“Lay down,” Dean says, kicking his shoes off. 

“Dean, uh,” Jimmy flusters, raking fingers through his hair. “I’m not in the mood.”

As much as Dean loves sex with his husband, it’s the furthest thing from his mind. “I’m not either,” he laughs. “Just want to hold you.”

Jimmy lifts a single eyebrow as if to challenge him, but crawls onto the bed and collapses into the softness of their thick comforter. 

Dean removes his jacket next, dropping it onto the floor, then gets onto the bed beside Jimmy and curls up next to him. He pulls Jimmy close, and though usually he’s the one who ends up with a head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s the one tucking himself into the soft space beneath Jimmy’s jaw. 

“How long was I gone?” Jimmy asks after a while.

“Felt like forever,” Dean admits, feeling small. “I really missed you.”

Jimmy hums and kisses the top of Dean’s head. “What happened?”

Dean takes a deep breath, holding it in, then lets it out slowly against Jimmy’s chest. His heart has finally settled a bit and the pain that was there is gone. 

He doesn’t want to tell his husband anything, because none of it matters. Only Jimmy matters. 

But he’s got to tell Jimmy something, otherwise he’ll mope and carry the guilt of sins he thinks he should carry, he’ll feel awful like a burden, so Dean tells him what he can to keep the moment sweet and light. 

“Manny was mad at me as usual. He doesn’t appreciate my homosexuality as much as you do.”

Jimmy laughs at that, and the way his chest jumps against Dean’s cheek feels wonderful. 

“Well, he’s missing out,” Jimmy agrees. 

Dean just pulls him in tighter.


	4. Chapter 4

He doesn’t know for certain, not really, but Dean is convinced the Universe is conspiring against him.

Weeks without a single step forward on his needed interviews will do that to a guy, and weeks without sex or even a perfunctory hand-job made it considerably worse. A part of him wants to be thankful for the down time because God knows that rarely happens, but it seems like whenever Dean wants something to happen, whenever he _needs_ it to, nothing does. His brain spins its wheels and there’s nothing going on to give it a little traction.

Allie had started school, and as wonderful and amazing as that day had been to see her all dressed up and going to her first day of Kindergarten, it’s still a little shocking that it’s been the highlight of the last month. Without Jimmy transitioning, without Eleanor endlessly pissing him off and Anna trying to weasel her way into his marriage, Dean doesn’t really have anything to do.

Except his job, but does that really count?

Jimmy hasn’t talked to him much, not after they woke up in each other’s arms and Dean pushed him away like he’d been a regrettable night of anonymous sex. The thing about Jimmy is that he’ll nag and whine about the little things, but he won’t dare question something that he fears would spiral out of control and out of his ability to handle it. It’s probably why he backed down so easily when Dean insisted on the documentary, and why he quietly allowed himself to be set aside while Dean moped and pouted for outwardly inexplicable reasons.

A defense mechanism, his therapist called it once, to keep Jimmy from transitioning too much. Dean’s been accused of exploiting it a time or two, like he is now.

But he can’t look at Jimmy without thinking of his damn novel and the passive-aggressive stab in the back. There’s only so many times a guy can say he’s not a cheater before his pleas have the opposite effect. Dean’s not the only victim either – Charlie, his closest friend despite being six feet under and cold, is being branded with a scarlet A on her chest.

As a photographer, Dean’s supposed to be able to see the beauty in the most mundane things. He needs to be a creative problem solver with an artistic eye and a compassion for the subject he’s caught in the lens. But after what he saw in his husband’s book – that single, debilitating paragraph – all Dean can see when he looks out the window is snow. All he can see when he looks at his compilation for the documentary is failure.

Eleanor, being her usual delightful self, sat for her portion of the interview as promised. She smiled, nodded appropriately, and gave enthusiastic one-word answers that Dean can do absolutely nothing with. 

With the well running dry and desperation prickling under his skin, Dean shifts gears and tries another route. Anna and Eleanor were his only real sources for solid interview material, but there’s another family out there somewhere boiling over with information. Jimmy is adopted, and he got more than just his good looks from a pair of people who were either unable or unwilling to raise him. People who might have the answers for why Jimmy transitions in the first place.

҉     ҉     ҉

Allie brings home her first assignment, graded with a smiley face and a _Good Job Valentine!_ written boldly in the top corner. Dean stares at the red ink before muttering a belated “Fuck” and setting the paper down on the kitchen table.

Jimmy glares at him from across the table, a silent promise of future punishment for cussing in front of their lovely, impressionable daughter. Allie doesn’t pay the slip any attention as she kicks off her shoes and drops her backpack by the door.

“There’s two girls in class named Allie,” she explains, crawling up into Dean’s lap and planting her bony knees into his thighs. “Well, their names are Alison and Alexis, but they go by Allie. I’m the only Valentine.”

Dean nods carefully, hoping his expression is neutral. “Yes, you are.”

“Miss Rupert asked if I was born on the holiday, but I told her I’m named after a book,” Allie smiles, and Dean gets a whiff of her hair as she turns to face Jimmy. She smells a little like glue and cotton candy. “She said she didn’t know a book with a girl named Valentine.”

Jimmy’s eyebrow lifts automatically in confusion before his features fall smugly into disbelief, giving them both an incredulous look. Dean realizes with a sluggish beat of his heart that it’s the longest they’ve maintained eye contact in a while. “Your teacher has never heard of Ender’s Game? They’ve made it into a movie now, haven’t they?”

Dean doesn’t pay much attention to the movie scene, a crime considering his profession, but he nods in agreement to placate his husband and daughter. They make movies about everything these days, and rare is the book in which the cover hasn’t been replaced by the Hollywood version. It feels a little like being robbed, because Allie’s name had been a well-guarded secret, a treasured keepsake from his late friend. Sharing it with the world feels wrong, even if Charlie had always intended for her daughter go by the exceptional moniker.

“I didn’t remember the name of the book,” Allie admits, shrugging her shoulders. “But I said the girl was really nice and that’s why my mom named me that.”

“Compassionate,” Dean adds, but after he says it he doesn’t know why it supposed to help. “She was too kind and sympathetic. Everyone was important to her.”

“Like you and daddy?” Allie asks. Her voice inflects high and curious, eyes shiny as she looks over to Jimmy for an answer. Dean’s angle is limited, but the flutter of her lashes and the light on her cheekbones has him seeing a young Charlie. For a moment, they’re kids again and dressed up in makeshift chainmail, a cardboard circlet perched nobly atop Charlie’s head.

Whoever Allie’s biological father is must have pretty weak genes, because Dean can find no trace of a foreign feature on her face. She is her mother’s daughter, no doubt. Whatever resemblance to Dean that Jimmy believes exists is utter bullshit.

Which reminds him all over again why he’s so pissed, and why he and his husband have been tightrope walking through their marriage the last few weeks.

“I guess,” Dean says, thoroughly deflated.

Allie squints, a small frown budding on her face.

“Sure, like me and daddy,” Jimmy says. Leaving his papers at the table, Jimmy excuses himself to slink back into the study, legs moving briskly as if he’s trying not to run.

Dean can’t stop himself from getting an eyeful of his husband’s ass through the tight, swishy material of his shorts, and he sourly accepts the fact that he’ll be angrily masturbating to the image later tonight when he’s in the shower.

In his lap, Allie sighs and leans forward on the table, palms cradling her chubby cheeks. “I don’t like it when you fight.”

Of all the responses in Dean’s head, none of them sound particularly convincing or true. They aren’t fighting, not really, but they rarely have those loud, voice-cracking arguments when Jimmy is himself and even then it’s mostly Dean being the hostile one. Their fights are tame in comparison to what they’ve both witnessed as kids, and there’s not much to battle out between them anyway.

But Allie is an agonizingly perceptive little girl and she knows a fight when she sees one, raised voices or not.

“Me neither,” Dean admits, kissing the top of her head. “Want me to put on some cartoons or something?”

Allie shakes her head and Dean gets another face-full of her hair. She slides down from his lap, and he notices with a painful groan that she’s got a bony butt to match her knees. Girl could put somebody’s eye out with that thing.

“I’m gonna go play,” is all she says as she bounces off in the direction of her room, and then Dean’s left at the table with only his bitter, selfish thoughts to keep him company.

It’s ugly outside, grey and washed over like an under-exposed photo. The rain from this morning has finally let up but there are still murky puddles and muddy tire prints tracked across the street. Dean itches to go on a walk, to get some fresh air and clear his head, but the clouds hanging low and heavy are threatening to spill again, soon.

Even a quick jog could be enough to shake off the funk, but Jimmy could transition and then Allie might not be safe. She’d be fine with Emmanuel, but Cas has been unpredictable lately and Claire needs adult supervision herself.

He grunts, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. Today sucks.

҉     ҉     ҉

The next day isn’t any better.

New furniture has replaced what was once familiar in Eleanor’s living room. Gone are the overstuffed couches with floral patterns and the antique styled lamps, artifacts from an earlier era that were handed down through the Visyak generations. It’s strange to see the room so sleek and depersonalized, like Eleanor got fed up with all the color and bleached it away.

He misses the comfort of the fluffier settee, the one covered in roses that he’d sat on with Jimmy when they were teens. The new couch is black and leather and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

Eleanor agreed to trade her cooperation for more time with Allie, but she still refuses to be filmed. It makes her feel like an ant beneath a magnifying glass for reasons she wouldn’t explain. Dean didn’t bring his camera, but he did bring a notebook and a tape recorder in the hopes she would give him something useful.

And, though she won’t be photographed, Eleanor refuses to look casual for the interview. It’s like she thinks the people who may end up listening to her voice will somehow be able to hear whether or not she looked nice.

“So you have no idea who they were? None at all?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes in a boringly predictive manner, clicking her fingernails against the thick silver chain around her neck. She’s painted so densely that her face resembles an ornately framed canvas. “It was decades ago and he was in foster care. It’s not like I rang his mother’s doorbell and offered her a sack of gold shillings in exchange for her son.”

Dean watches the fine wrinkles around her lips and neck twitch and she feigns annoyed impatience. She knows something she’s not sharing.

“But his natural parents, I mean, weren’t their names on the adoption papers? His original birth certificate must have said something.”

“His original birth certificate,” she laughs, crossing her legs on the matching leather chaise so that her deep red pedicure stands out. “He didn’t have one of those, Dean. His parents must have been bush people or something because they never registered his birth. The whole thing was a bit complicated but Zachariah was so insistent. He thought we could cure little Jimmy.”

“You didn’t agree?” Dean asks, being careful not to draw attention to the fact that Eleanor mentioned her ex-husband.

Jimmy doesn’t remember much of the man, just that he was there every day for four years of his life and then one day he wasn’t. It was almost like an unexpected death the way his adoptive father was just gone; he barely packed enough to fill a suitcase and then quietly snipped the threads keeping him fettered to his family. “There’s too much noise here,” Jimmy remembers his father saying softly as he put on his coat. He slipped out the door and never came back.

“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with him,” Eleanor clarifies, “He was a troubled little boy who liked to play pretend, or maybe he never really knew who he was. Hard to say, considering the way he lived.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about the way he lived,” Dean says. He tries not to make it sound like a question.

“No no, I’m talking about his foster family. His foster mother kept bandages over his scars like she was trying to hide them. I told her he couldn’t be coned like a dog, but she insisted. Maybe it was more for her benefit than his.”

Dean thinks briefly of the scars as the images rush into his view without permission: white linear scabs on Jimmy’s knuckles, and on the webbing between his fingers. A strange assortment of pockmarks on his knees and shins. Others that are harder to describe but can’t be explained by a natural glitch of the skin. He pushes the images away once he realizes what he’s doing, tempted to pinch himself. Jimmy hates when anyone looks at them, and Dean has spent years trying to retrain his brain not to think of them at all.

He drags the pen across the notebook, writing her memory of Jimmy’s foster mom in blue scribbles. It’s something Dean didn’t know before. He wonders if Jimmy remembers it.

“She didn’t like to see them?” Dean prompts.

Eleanor considers it for a moment. “We only talked about it once, when she suggested adopting him might not be a good idea. She only said it was better when Jimmy couldn’t see the scars, but I didn’t believe her.”

“What was her name?”

“Dean, I’ve told you this. I don’t remember those kinds of details.”

“You must remember something,” he pushes, leaning forward and making that awful groaning sound against the resistant leather. “Anything.”

Eleanor shakes her head, but her eyes are wide and glossed over as she turns to stare at the far wall. There are pictures hung there, ones of Anna and Gabriel together on a camping trip years past, but Dean knows that’s not what she’s looking at. At least, they’re not what she’s thinking about as she drags a nail finger over her lip.

“The mother was very pretty – the real one, not the foster – but I remember her last name didn’t match her face. She was blonde, kind of petite, very American looking. Girl next door type. But their last name, it was…foreign, kind of hard to pronounce. I’d never heard it before, and I’ve never met anyone else with the same last name since.”

Dean blinks. “You said you didn’t remember their last name.”

“I don’t, but I’d know it if I heard it again,” she says, going completely still. Her lids fall over her eyes like heavy curtains and she deflates with an exhale, sinking deeper into the chaise. “I may have something of interest to you, but you must promise me that it stays between us.”

Eleanor doesn’t look in Dean’s direction when she makes the proposition, if her offer can even be called that. It makes his skin crawl to think she has something interesting, something important about his husband’s history, but he can’t promise not to tell Jimmy. He’s not sure he could make a promise like that and not hate himself.

The tape recorder whirs as it immortalizes the silence, documenting the stale air as Dean bites nervously at the end of the pen.

“Depends on what it is,” Dean says. Maybe he can wheedle a little more information out of her before he agrees to anything. 

“It’s nothing life-changing, Dean, but I’d prefer it if my son didn’t see it,” she says, and the tone of her voice has changed to something gentler, more maternal. Dean’s not sure he’s ever seen Eleanor be that kind of motherly before. “Turn off the recorder.”

Dean does as he’s told, and tucks it away into the pocket of his jeans. He considers keeping it going, recording the conversation secretly in the hopes she confesses something worth documenting, but then she’s pulling something slim with battered edges out of her pocket.

It’s a Polaroid, an old one. Blemished white frame around a bluish photo, black ink printed across the bottom.

As he takes it from her, he realizes she must have pulled it out from wherever its been hiding just for this meeting, and he wonders how long she’s been thinking about sharing it, why she’s finally showing it to him now.

Dean looks at Eleanor before he looks at the photo. Something unsettling slithers up his spine as he reminds himself that she’s not always to be trusted.

It’s a picture of a young blonde, just like the one she described, holding a light-haired infant in her lap. Eleanor was right: very beautiful and exceptionally petite, though her hair isn’t styled and she wore no makeup. Her straight blonde strands were lobbed off just above her shoulders, and she donned a floral dress with a sewn-on apron.

Block letters indicate that JAMES is the infant, that this is a picture of Jimmy and his biological mother.

“It’s a shame they didn’t think to write her name on here, too,” Dean says, almost reverent. “Where did you get this?”

“The foster mother gave it to me,” she explains, and when Dean tries to hand the photo back, she shakes her head. She doesn’t even look at it.

“You want me to keep this?”

“I want you to use it to find Jimmy’s family,” Eleanor says frankly, the maternal softness in her voice slipping. “Don’t pretend like that’s not what you’re doing. I can’t help beyond that photo, but you’re good at that kind of thing so you can have it. Put it to good use.”

Dean is afraid to put the picture in his pocket, doesn’t want to crinkle it or damage it accidentally, so he tucks it in between the layers of the notebook. “Good at what, exactly?”

“Honestly, Dean, your marriage is like that National Treasure movie. Always running around after Jimmy, looking for clues, fitting pieces together that no one else really cares about, and you’ve dedicated your entire life to it. You’re better looking than Nicolas Cage, at least.”

Dean laughs, a first with Eleanor that isn’t from pity or polite awkwardness.

“Well,” She continues, voice back to frigid familiarity, “you could have picked any hobby to work on in your spare time, but you chose my son. You and I both know that I’ll never understand it. But if you find his family, what will you do? What’s at the end of this treasure hunt for you?”

He’s never been asked this question before, doesn’t even know if he can answer it. He’d only considered the possibility of finding Jimmy’s relatives in vague, distant terms. Like most things, he’ll probably just wing it.

But Eleanor’s watching him with those sharp, predator eyes of hers, digging in like hooks and not letting go. It’s eerie how quickly she can dance between a cordial joke and unnerving intimidation.  

“I’ll annoy them with questions, probably,” he admits.

“Naturally.”

Dean swallows, ready to leave.

“Like I’ve always told my children: if you’re going to do something, it’s worth doing right. In your case, Dean, don’t fuck it up.”

҉     ҉     ҉

Dean’s home before Jimmy returns from his appointment, so he takes the opportunity to straighten up the place before his husband shows up. Tensions are high but the sink is filled with dishes and he’s pretty sure their bathroom floor is covered dirty clothes and used towels. Emmanuel is a great housekeeper, and Dean doesn’t want to give Jimmy any reason to transition.

Even if they’re not really talking. It’s just easier that way.

Eleanor is picking Allie up after school, and the weight of their trade feels heavy in his back pocket. In truth, he has no idea what to do with the Polaroid. She made it perfectly clear that Jimmy isn’t to see it, and yet Dean knows how cancerous that kind of secret is. It’s one thing to shut out Anna and keep his husband from learning about her feelings, but another thing entirely to hide the only picture of Jimmy’s biological mother in existence. He has more right to the photograph than Dean does.

And yet he thinks of that faceless foster mother, covering all of Jimmy’s scars with bandages so he couldn’t see them, and Dean can’t help but wonder if Eleanor has the right idea. There’s no way to know whether the Polaroid is capable of doing more harm than good. The damn thing is a weapon that’s liable to cut the wielder as well as the target.

It’s such an old picture, too. What is he supposed to do with it? He has access to age progression technology at his work, but even that seems like a flimsy idea. It’s not like he can staple her picture up around the neighborhood and hope someone calls.

If she’s even still alive.

Frustrated, Dean kicks the kitchen counter and throws the wet dishrag into the sink – an act of pathetic ferocity that backfires when he’s hit in the face with a splash of water.

He’s wiping at his eyes with his sleeves when he hears Jimmy behind him. “What did the rag ever do to you?”

Dean startles, more embarrassed than angry. Jimmy must be freshly emboldened by his therapy session if he’s willing to make a joke despite the awkward strain between them. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jimmy sets his things down on the table while Dean dries his face. “Easier said than done.”

And just like that, Dean knows they aren’t talking about the rag anymore.

But it’s not a subject he wants to discuss; there’s no happy ending to that conversation. Either he betrays his buried friend or he betrays his husband, and neither are fantastic options. Yet, no matter how slippery the slope, Jimmy seems determined to climb it.

As predicted, he steps closer to Dean and he can feel Jimmy’s hand ghost across his arm, a kind and tentative gesture. Dean’s stomach flips with how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation. Jimmy takes a deep breath. “What did I do?”

Dean shakes his head as though he can just shoo the question away. “Nothin’, babe. Just forget it happened.” He forces a smile and it’s too transparent. Jimmy sees right through him.

“Did I transition? I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did wrong.”

They’re nearly the same height, so it’s easy to look straight in Jimmy’s eyes and read the heart-aching sincerity there.

“It’s…” Dean starts, but pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose. He can feel the start of a headache coming on. “We really don’t need to talk about it, okay?”

Dean tries to turn away, to face the sink again and cut their conversation short, but he finds himself bracketed by Jimmy’s arms and insistence. “We do. You…come on, Dean. You shoved me away and haven’t talked to me since. Did I – did one of the alters do something?”

“No,” Dean says, honestly. Jimmy waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.

“Then what?” Jimmy demands, stepping impossibly closer until he’s right in Dean’s face. “Do you still love me?”

“Of course I do!” Dean almost can’t believe his husband would ask such a thing. No matter how hard or suffocating Jimmy’s disorder had been on their marriage, Dean damn well knew what he was getting himself into when he said Yes.

Jimmy looks baffled. “Did _you_ do something? Is that what this is?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean growls, breaking Jimmy’s barrier and putting some much needed space between them. “You’re joking, right? Jesus.”

“I’m not joking,” Jimmy answers without blinking. “Something happened, and I want to know what.”

Dean’s anger reaches molten levels, but he remains unflinching when he says, “You really want me to be a cheater, don’t you? What do you even get out of that sick fantasy? An easy way out?”

“I don’t want a way out, I just want the truth.” Jimmy follows him despite Dean’s attempts to back away further. “And why would I want you to be a cheater? Are you hearing yourself?”

“Are you _reading_ yourself?” Dean counters, and as much as he doesn’t want to hash this out, he can’t stop himself. He’s too pissed. “This isn’t about your alters, this is about you thinking Charlie and I slept together. You think Allie’s my secret love child.”

Jimmy’s mouth falls open, first in surprise, then hangs there in utter shock. “No I don’t.”

“Right,” Dean scoffs. “I suppose your little novel is entirely fictional, huh?”

“You saw that.” Jimmy realizes, his words a stunned statement rather than a question.

“I didn’t mean to.” For some reason, Dean still feels like the culprit here, defensive. “You left it open.” As if that makes it better.

Jimmy bites his lip nervously, a strange motion that seems out of place. He keeps his distance but tugs off his coat, placing it gingerly on the counter. His entire demeanor has shifted, and Dean can’t help the way he responds in kind. Suddenly they’re both dropping the offense and playing on the defense.

“I wasn’t ready for you to see that,” Jimmy admits, the gears clicking in his head almost audibly. Dean can practically hear the excuses before Jimmy says them.

“Well, I did.”

“It's not…that’s not what it’s about, Dean. That wasn’t the point. I – ” He cuts himself off and hides his face behind his hands, fingers pulling at his temples. Dean’s heart pounds with the fear that Jimmy’s about to transition, but then he sighs and says, “I don’t care if she’s yours, Dean. I thought I did, but I don’t. Not anymore.”

At least he’s not wasting their time by feigning ignorance. “She’s not mine. She’s _ours_.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Do you really think I’d sleep with Charlie? Cheat on you and lie about it?”

Jimmy’s eyes go watery and Dean has to resist the impulse to comfort him. It’s not fair. He’s not the one who should be comforted right now. “I think it’s possible you made a mistake that turned into one of the greatest gifts we’ve ever been given.”

“No, you think I slept around and knocked up our friend. Stop phrasing it like I forgot to pick up milk from the store or something,” Dean says, bitter and cold. He needs to hear his husband say what he really thinks. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be writing a damn book about it, would you? Admit it.”

“You were gone all night!” And there it is: the fire licking beneath the surface, the end of their fuming foreplay. “She sent you a text and then you were just gone. You wouldn’t answer my calls, no one knew where you were and then you finally show up looking like you’d been partying all night. I tried asking you what happened. You wouldn’t tell me.” He’s furious, the fake sympathy over past mistakes completely gone. A tear trails down his cheek and Jimmy smears it away like he’s trying to kill it.

“Partying?” That word stuck out the most. Dean tried to remember what he looked like that morning when he came in through the door, when Jimmy had ambushed him with hugs and spiteful glares.

Jimmy huffs, exasperated. “Like you’d been having sex the entire night.”

“The entire night? I think you are seriously overestimating my stamina, for starters."

“Dean!”

“Give me a break!” Dean crosses the room and pulls Jimmy in by his shoulders first, then cups his face with both hands. He forces his husband to look into his eyes by giving him no other choice, their faces so close they could kiss. “Why isn’t it enough that I love you? Or that I’m gay, for chrissakes? God, I’m so tired of having to remind people of that.”

They’re sharing the same breath and yet it feels like his husband is still a million miles away, refusing to believe him. Jimmy’s hands wedge between their chests, but he doesn’t push. He grips Dean’s shirt like he’s undecided. “And I suppose it was coincidence that Charlie just happened to be pregnant six weeks later.”

One hand slips over Jimmy’s jaw and settles low on his neck. Dean can feel his husband’s pulse quicken under his fingertips. “I promised her,” Dean says like he did back then. “I love you, Goddamnit.”

“She’s dead.”

Dean crushes their mouths together in a desperate attempt to get Jimmy to shut up. He doesn’t know which emotion has him tugging on the short slide of hair on the back of Jimmy’s head, tilting his face to give him a better angle.

Jimmy is unresisting, gasping a little when Dean pulls back to gauge his reaction. They blink at each other for all of two seconds before Dean leans in and kisses him again, the agenda to silence his husband gone. They haven’t done this in what feels like a lifetime and he forces all thoughts of Charlie out of his head.

They don’t take it slow. It’s like their fight translated from barbed words to the way their lips press together with bruising force, like one of them can win if they try hard enough. Jimmy’s hands drop to his waist and push up the fabric of his shirt, and the thought of their bare skin touching sounds like a really amazing idea. Dean yanks his shirt up and off, tossing it to the floor, and paws at Jimmy’s buttons until he gets frustrated enough to start ripping them apart.

“Wait,” Jimmy breathes, hands on Dean’s wrists. Dean considers protesting until he watches Jimmy do the same, pulling his shirt off over his head instead of messing with the buttons.

He drags his hands over Jimmy’s skin, savoring the heat and the wonderfully soft part just above his hips. He misses this so much, the feel of his husband wriggling and breathing heavy against his neck as Dean starts slowly rocking against him. It’s almost as good as the sex itself.

Without letting up on the pressure, Dean unbuckles Jimmy’s belt and unzips their jeans. He pushes their pants down and starts rocking in earnest, but it’s dry and not quite enough. Dean keeps one hand tight on Jimmy’s side and uses the other to grip them both. It almost doesn’t work with how proportional they are and how dry it still is, but he manages to hold them together even as Jimmy starts bucking up into his fist. Dean jacks them with rough, uneven pulls, but the hot slide of their dicks together has him dangerously close to coming much sooner than he’d like.

Jimmy reclaims Dean’s mouth with a bite on his lower lip that makes him wince. He’s not coordinated enough to do much more than moan and deepen the kiss when Jimmy opens for it, making his mouth slutty and eager in the way that always has his husband falling apart. It works, and Jimmy’s fucking into Dean’s fist as hard as he can, his hands squeezing on the sensitive skin just below his shoulder blades tight enough to leave a mark.

Dean comes hard once the cresting pleasure becomes too much, and the mess he makes all over his hand slicks the way and makes it feels impossibly better. He breaks the kiss, turning away and pressing his face against Jimmy’s shoulder, lips brushing softly against his collar bone. Dean’s brain is pleasure fogged as he catches his breath, eyes a little bleary from the rush of blood to his groin and the aftershocks making him twitch.

“Dean,” Jimmy begs, voice pitched high and needy.

He hums in response, his hand still slowly working them both to wring the last of the come from their bodies.

“Dean!”

He lifts his head to meet Jimmy’s eyes, and in an instant realizes he left Jimmy on the edge without getting him off. His husband is trembling with it and Dean can’t believe he forgot.

“Shit, sorry.” Dean lets himself go and wraps his wet fingers around Jimmy, who shudders at the touch and exhales on a long moan.

A minute later when Jimmy finally comes, Dean’s arm burns from use and his fingers are pleasantly sticky. He leans forward and presses a soothing kiss to Jimmy’s forehead as he slumps against the counter, exhausted.

Dean pulls up his jeans but keeps them loose and open on his hips. He twists in search of something to clean them both up, remembering the rag that started this whole thing in the first place. It’s still damp enough to work, and though his hands got the worst of it he passes it over to Jimmy first.

Dean runs his hands under the faucet and lathers up with soap. He doesn’t say anything as Jimmy cleans himself with quiet efficiency and redresses. As he dries off, he watches Jimmy inspect the ruined buttons of his shirt before frowning and balling it up by the sink.

“I love you too,” Jimmy says unexpectedly, and there’s a sense of stubborn finality to it. His cheeks are flushed pink and his voice is a little breathless. “Whatever happened, Dean, I can handle it. I’m not a child.”

Of course it was too much to hope that Jimmy would just let it go, that he could take Dean at his word and trust him.

Jimmy stands there, waiting, a flimsy string a hope keeping him tied to the idea that Dean might fold and confess to whatever he thinks must have happened that night. And though Dean knows his husband could handle it – there was never any question of that – it’s not the point.

He’d never seen Charlie cry before, not until that night, and she had sobbed into his shirt until it was damp with her hard-fought tears. She made him promise over and over again until she believed him, that he’d never tell another soul so long as he lived.

And Charlie wouldn’t stop apologizing, which somehow made the whole situation worse.

The post-orgasmic glow is gone, completely ruined, and Jimmy keeps staring at him like Dean’s about to give him what he wants. He spitefully thinks of Claire, the little girl alter that only makes an appearance on rare occasions, and says, “Well, sometimes you are.”

Jimmy squints in confusion until comprehension flickers over his face, and Dean wishes he had kept his fat mouth shut.

He’s not that surprised when Jimmy doesn’t respond, or when he leaves the kitchen with an eerily calm composure that doesn’t match the utter heartbreak in his eyes.

The stairs groan when Jimmy climbs them and Dean hears their bedroom slam. It’s ironic, he thinks, that his husband would act so childish after insisting he was adult enough to hear the truth.

҉     ҉     ҉

The sun sets with an ugly orange as Dean watches from his chair in their backyard. Allie’s probably out having a milkshake with her grandmother and Jimmy’s still simmering in his anger upstairs, door locked. Dean tries not to make a habit of fucking up royally on all fronts, but sometimes he does and it feels pretty sharp between his ribs. This might be the longest Jimmy’s gone without transitioning, medicine free, and yet they’ve barely done more than bicker like a couple of spoiled brats.

He can’t stop thinking about Jimmy’s mother, either – the blonde one who brought him into this world. It’s strange to think of his biological family as real human beings sharing the same Earth, or that anyone could forfeit their child and then never look for them, never think of them again. Does she want to meet her son? Is she living somewhere with another family, another life?

It might be the only train of thought Dean can pursue without feeling guilty right now. Jimmy knows he’s on the hunt for answers and that the documentary needs to happen. The photograph seems to be balancing on some fine line between right and wrong but is probably the lesser of two evils. It could lead to answers; it could bring peace to his husband and point to a cure.

Sammy would know. Sammy’s better at not fucking things up or making them worse.

He pulls out his phone and dials his brother.

When Sam answers, Dean can tell he’s in a mood. “What?”

“Hey Bitch.”

“Dean,” Sam pauses, but his voice remains annoyed as ever. “What do you need help with now?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Seriously, Dean just cannot win today. Everyone is mad at him for something.

“Just – I don’t have a lot of time right now. Out with it.”

“Fine,” Dean frowns, swatting at a mosquito. “I was wondering what it would take to unseal some adoption records.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Dean does his best to keep his heart and mouth in check. He probably could have just Googled the damn information, but he kind of feels better having his brother on the phone.

“You’ll have to fill out a petition form and plead your case before a judge. You’ll need better justification than wanting to satisfy your curiosity. This is for Jimmy, right?”

“Well yeah, unless you know something about our mom and dad you’re not telling me.”

Sam sighs. “You could have been asking for Allie, jerk. But if you want to unseal Jimmy’s adoption records, he’s going to have to be the one to petition, and he’ll have to say he needs them for medical reasons. Jimmy’s got a long history with his disorder, so that should be enough.”

Dean’s not sure how to reply to that. He honestly doesn’t know if Jimmy wants to pop the lid off that particular box, or Dean would even be able to convince him. They’ll have to be on better talking terms, at the very least. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to help your favorite brother out with that, huh?”

To his surprise, Sam says, “I could be persuaded.”

Dean laughs despite his uncertainty; Sammy’s not exactly one to crack jokes, especially when he’s being a big downer. “What, you want a lap dance or something? Make me earn it on my knees?”

“I was thinking we could start with dinner, actually.”

“Oh, romancing the whore I see. I always knew you liked Pretty Woman.”

“I’m serious,” Sam insists, using that no-nonsense lawyer voice of his. Dean swears the little punk was born with it. “When was the last time you called me just to talk, or to hang out? We live in the same city and yet I rarely see you.”

The pain between Dean’s ribs sinks deeper and does funny things to his heart. “I’m that bad, huh?”

“Invite Meg and I over for dinner, and I’ll help you. That’s the deal.”

“Yeah, sure Sammy,” Dean agrees, laying his head back against the chair as the sky darkens to an uglier pumpkin color. His skin prickles from the cold and he starts to shiver. “This Friday work?”

“Friday works,” Sam says. “We’ll head over at about seven. Make sure Jimmy does the cooking: I’d like to be able to eat the food.”

“Shut it. I can cook better than you can.”

“If you say so.” Sam is smiling now, Dean can tell. It doesn’t stop the guilt he feels for being such a shitty brother, though.

Dean was ready to argue his point, but the line goes dead before he can respond. He stares at his phone as it flickers back to the home screen and thinks about sending Jimmy a message, but informing his husband about their new dinner plans via text is probably a death wish.

And unless he wants the dinner to be awkward and uncomfortable as hell, Dean’s gonna have to get back on Jimmy’s good side. He’ll have to apologize.


End file.
